


Tumblr Shorts

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Roulette, Multi, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 54,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2030568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of ficlets and shorts that I've posted on Tumblr from prompts and requests. They're in no particular order or sense. They're probably not necessarily same universe. But I'd guess they're all BBC Sherlock for the most part. It's not a WIP so to speak, since they're all stand alone bits. I'll put the prompt or the suggestion in the note at the beginning of each one ('chapter') and uh... enjoy, I guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alright, luv.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't actually find the prompt for this, but I deeply suspect it had been anotherwellkeptsecret suggesting that John would accidentally call Sherlock "love" in the middle of the day. And I gave this to the world.

It had been a particularly long day. The case had dragged out and on long enough that when Sherlock took it upon himself to tackle the thief to the ground, neither of them got up right away. John was less concerned with the criminal and more concerned with his criminally idiotic flatmate. He dropped onto his haunches, studying Sherlock's face. "Alright?"

Sherlock nodded and stuck out his hand for John to help him upright. John obliged. And when Sherlock swayed uneasily on his feet, John wrapped one lanky arm around his shoulder and took a surprising amount of weight onto his sturdier frame. "Have you eaten anything today, Sherlock?"

"Transport," Sherlock muttered back with disdain.

"Berk." John half walked, half dragged Sherlock up to the main road, and shook his head with amusement when a flourished hand met a vacant cab without any hesitation. "Did you sign a deal with satan to be able to do that?"

"Do what?" Sherlock's furrowed brows were confused, actually unable to sort out John's question. John rolled his eyes and stuffed Sherlock into the cab.

Safely back in Baker Street, John stripped Sherlock's coat and scarf and gave him a friendly shove towards his room. "Go change. I'll make us some dinner." Sherlock managed to keep his feet into his own room, and John turned into the kitchen. He cuffed the sleeves of his Jumper, washed his hands, and started making a curry.

Sauce simmering, rice in the pot, John heard the shower cut out, and a few moments later, Sherlock swanned into the sitting room. There was a familiar plonking sound and John leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorframe, crossing his arms. "Better?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Curry? Really, John?"

"Transport doesn't get a say in what I cook," John smirked.

Sherlock huffed, slid from sitting to laying across the couch, and closed his eyes. "Ah, cooking. Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Git," John said affectionately.

Sherlock cracked a single eye, a small smile playing across his lips. "I suppose if I don't consume something, I'll only exacerbate my current state. Perhaps even your curry will be palatable now."

John huffed out a laugh. "I'm sure it will be. Should be ready in five minutes. Would you have a cuppa, Sherlock? I'm making one for myself anyhow."

"Obviously."

"Is that a yes?" John asked, turning into the kitchen.

"Fine."

"Alright, love." John clicked on the kettle.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and his head swiveled to stare over his shoulder at the kitchen. John's hand were planted on the counter, his shoulders square, but unmoving. Sherlock watched the bright shade of red creep up the back of John's neck, up and out to the tips of his ears. Sherlock blinked. Maybe he heard wrong. Clearly the lack of sleep was affecting his ability to properly sense the world. Sleep. Food then sleep.

The kettle clicked off, and John was in motion. Making tea the same way he always made tea. A cup in each hand, John cleared his throat and came back into the sitting room. He set a cup within Sherlock's reach and settled into his own chair, sipping his tea as if it were the only thing he need be concerned with. "John?"

"Hm?" John blew gently across the surface of the cup before taking another sip.

"Did you say dinner would be ready in five minutes?"

"I did, why?"

"Just... Thinking. Maybe I should have something to eat." He pushed himself up to sit and reached for his tea.

"Oh?" John raised both brows, something like amusement on his face.

"I think it would be advisable. I'm mishearing things. I... I don't like mistakes." Sherlock glanced at the tea before taking a sip. His stomach rumbled back. Yes, he should definitely eat.

John set his cup on the side table and wandered back toward the kitchen. "No mistake," he murmured, a wry smile spreading across his face as Sherlock turned beet red.


	2. Prove it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... There's this gif right? Of Sherlock... And we all know what's going on in it. And the conversation sprang forth that clearly John is 'exploring Sherlock's man parts' But then, THEN, thescienceofjohnlock suggested that John told Sherlock he gives the best blowjobs, and Sherlock responds with 'Prove it.'
> 
> Then this happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gif from deduces.tumblr.com (http://38.media.tumblr.com/526e3e737511c5a97627158fdaa11837/tumblr_mlcfg7BHAw1rpfjx5o1_500.gif)

John sucked his cheeks in and pursed his lips. “You know, you can be a right twat when you try.”

Sherlock snorted. “I wasn’t trying.”

"Right." John slammed his palms into the arms of his chair as he pushed to stand. He took a sharp breath through his nose and opened his mouth, bracing for the rush of anger that seemed to boil up in the back of his throat, and stopped. He snapped his mouth shut, turned on his heel, and strode into the kitchen.

Even with hands braced on the counter, back to the sitting room, kettle working on a low boil, he could feel Sherlock’s eyes boring a small hole into his spine. John heaved a sigh and turned, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting Sherlock’s gaze with a stare of his own. “You know, it’s not that I don’t like to.”

"Really?" Sherlock purred, closing the distance between them to lean his hip against the kitchen table.

"Anytime I’ve ever…" John tilted his head to the side, his eyes tightening for a split second in a manner completely incongruous with the lop-sided grin on his face. "I’m not the one with an impulse control problem."

"Problem?" Sherlock cocked a brow. "You’ve never complained."

"You’ve never accused me of being selfish before!" John snapped stepping into his personal space.

Sherlock managed to keep his face impassive in spite of the heat he could feel radiating off of John’s body, the smell of him at this proximity, the dark blue nearly black shade his eyes could appear under heightened emotion, the distinct lack of contact. “I don’t believe I said ‘selfish,’ J-John.” His breath hitched as John’s fingers hooked into Sherlock’s belt, slipping it open without actually making contact with Sherlock’s skin.

"No," John shook his head very slowly. "You suggested that I was too conceited to suck on another man’s cock."

Sherlock felt the blush suffuse his cheeks as John freed his trouser button and fly, staring him down, daring him to move away. His trousers pooled around his ankles and he swallowed, “Guilty as charged.”

"Hm," John wet his lips, watching the tiniest flits of emotion on Sherlock’s flushed face. And hooked his thumbs into the elastic of Sherlock’s pants. "You wear bespoke, silk pants and think I’m conceited?"

"Ah, well," Sherlock’s breath left in a quick exhale as John’s index finger drew a leisurely trail along his growing erection. He cleared his throat. "I may have exaggerated slightly."

"Slightly?" John blinked lazily.

"Slightly, or scarcely, or maybe marginally." Sherlock closed his eyes as John drew his pants down to his ankles in one quick motion. "Somewhat?" he offered, his voice cracking mid word.

John’s breath was hot as it puffed out on the newly exposed flesh, “I have been told I’m quite good at it, really. The word ‘exceptional’ has been thrown around.”

Sherlock groaned as John’s fingers began tracing small patterns across his shaft. “Prove it.”

 


	3. On Harry and Sally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one for sure came from awellkeptsecret. At least, she asked for it. There was a suggestion of a When Harry Met Sally AU with the diner scene (you know the one). And the conversation as to how it would play out between John and Sherlock. I know a few people fic'd it. I did too.
> 
> For the record, with the exception of a word or two, perhaps a punctuation change, the dialogue is accurate to the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr link to conversation: (http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/88688521728/anotherwellkeptsecret-thatssocharlyvonkarma

John forced himself to take a bite of the food in front of him. It was rare that he didn’t want to eat and he only had the topic of conversation to blame. Himself, he only had himself to blame. Sherlock had been kind enough to slow down for five seconds and allow him this Thai food, first thing he’d eaten in maybe eighteen hours. Sherlock was daft for not eating. It was bad for him. So was it bad for John to chase Sherlock on an empty stomach, but how was he to know that Sherlock had started a case before John had finished his shift in the surgery? It was worse still to bring up the topic of Janine again. Sherlock had been rather evasive about it in the past, and in that evasion, John found himself rather embarrassed numerous times. But John had asked first.

“So what do you do with these women,” Sherlock asked. Hopefully referring to John’s ex-girlfriends, ex-flings, rather than Mary. “You just get up out of bed and leave?”

John looked at the wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyebrows and deliberately took another bite of food out of spite. “Sure,” he mumbled around the food.

“Well explain to me how you do it.” Sherlock leaned forward, his neck extending slightly, but his hands remaining below the table. “What do you say?”

Of all the things to be curious about… “You’d say you have an early meeting, early haircut or a squash game.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t play squash.”

“They don’t know that,” John smirked. He was starting to enjoy this conversation. “They just met me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s disgusting.”

The lie. John knew that Sherlock meant that the lie was disgusting. Unnecessary. Too detailed? “I know,” John grinned. “I feel terrible.” He didn’t. Sherlock knew he didn’t.

“You know, I’m so glad I never got involved with you.” Sherlock sniped. He waved a hand dismissively at John’s objection before it had even formed. “I just would’ve ended up being some woman you had to get up out of bed and leave at three o’clock in the morning and clean your andirons.” The absolute distain in Sherlock’s voice was both unexpected and curious. John started shifting the food around his plate. “And you don’t even have a fireplace. Not that I would notice.” Well, they had a fireplace…

John frowned. The conversation was getting unusually emotional, even for him. “Why are you getting upset? This is not about you.” He was trying to be gentle.

Sherlock drew himself up. “Yes it is.” John scoffed. It was a terribly unplanned and atrocious decision. “You are an affront to all women and I am a woman.”

What?! Affront! No… Now… The pride and egotism of Three-continents Watson reared its ugly head and John couldn’t keep himself from responding with indignity. “Hey, I don’t feel great about this, but I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock sneered. “You’re out of the door too fast.”  
John bristled. “I think they have an ok time.”

“How do you know?”

There was the other shoe. Sherlock dropped the question with ease and affronted scorn enough to make John doubt his previous actions. In his own defense, he normally left to return to Baker Street. And he’d never dare bring someone back there. Sherlock would more than likely blow up the flat. “What do you mean how do I know? I know.” Because he knew… He… He was sure he knew… He was pretty sure.

“Because they…” Sherlock offered, pouting his lower lip and waiting for John to finish the sentence.

“Yes, because they…” Why was he even discussing this with Sherlock? Why?

“And how do you know that they really…”

John rolled his eyes. “What?” He set his fork down carefully. “Are you saying that they fake orgasm?”

Sherlock smirked, “It’s possible.”

“Get outta here!” John huffed.

“Why?” Sherlock’s smirk didn’t waver, but he tilted his head coyly. “Most women at one time or another have faked it.”

“Well they haven’t faked it with me,” John snapped.

“How do you know?”

Sherlock was just curious. Just curious, John reassured himself. And he wasn’t threatening John’s virility. Or his experience. Or his medical knowledge. “Because I know,” John said flatly.

“Oh, right,” Sherlock grinned. “I forgot; you’re a man.”

John winced momentarily. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t want an answer. He never should have asked.

“Nothing.” Sherlock’s face went flat, blank. “It’s just that all men are sure it never happened to them and that most women at one time or another have done it so you do the math.”

The high accent in the end of Sherlock’s sentence made John cross. He pursed his lips. “You don’t think that I could tell the difference?” With all his experience? Sherlock would doubt what John was actually good at? Seriously?

“No.”

John rolled his eyes with irritation. “Get outta here.”

“Ooo…” Sherlock pursed his lips into a perfect ‘o.’ “Oh!” his perfect understanding sound. “Oooo…” Deduction sound.

John swallowed and shifted in his seat. “Are you ok?”

“Oh! Oh God!… Ooo… Oh God!” Sherlock stared at John, his face blank but his voice shifting rapidly into breathlessness. “Oh… Oh… Oh.. Oh God!… Oh yeah, right there.” John felt his face go red. This was obscene. This was… so wrong… Sherlock continued without a pause. “Oh! Oh… Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, YES…” John cleared his throat and shifted again… He really wanted Sherlock to stop, didn’t he? “Oh… Oh… Yes, Yes, Yes… OH!… Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes!”

John knew his blush had spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down his neck. Sherlock’s voice was carrying throughout the restaurant now and it was shockingly suggestive. Lascivious. Prurient. Raunchy… Pornographic. He shifted again. Fuck if it wasn’t filthy and… Oh God… John adjusted himself.

“Oh… Oh… Oh… Oh God!… Oh… Oh… Hun!” John swallowed hard.  
Sherlock’s blank look spread into a slow and broad smile.

John frowned, his brows drawing down in discomfort.

The silence between them was broken by the 19 year old BFA student, in town from Manchester, working on pottery, small spatters on the hems of her jeans, recently left a long-term, seven, no eight-month relationship, new tattoo on the left shoulder, bad economic haircut that she loved. “I’ll have what he’s having.”


	4. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night, anotherwellkeptsecret had a random prompt storm and just peppered the dashes with ideas. So I took this one: Sherlock says, “I love you.” and blinks at his own confession. And I fic'd it. And I'm not sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr conversation: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/92953866273/anotherwellkeptsecret-sherlock-says-i-love

John trudged up the stairs and set the shopping on the kitchen worktop. “Sherlock?” he called. No reply. He pursed his lips and listened; silence did not mean Sherlock was gone. Tea. He needed tea. John filled the kettle and clicked it on before unbagging the groceries. He was halfway done before he noticed it and John’s brow creased. The counter was clean. No dishes in the sink. He turned and eyed the worktop; it was nearly sparkling. With a small frown, he tugged the refrigerator door open: immaculate. No body parts, no mouldy food, no unidentifiable substances in odd containers. “Sherlock!”

John strode into the sitting room. The blankets were folded, the pillows were fluffed and straightened, the spray of papers were neatly contained in three stacks on the table. He crossed his arms. “Sherlock? What did you do?” When no answer was forthcoming, John risked poking his head into the bathroom, Sherlock’s bedroom, his own room; all were spotless, neat and tidy, as if professionally cleaned. He knew he should be glad, but it made him suspicious.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Mrs. Hudson?” John called, heading down the stairs. No luck. She wasn’t home. John had only been gone for a few hours; a quick four hour, last minute shift at the surgery and a drop by Tesco on the walk home. Someone would have to work straight through to clean this thoroughly. With a sigh, John mounted the steps, finished putting the groceries away, and made his cup of tea.

The sun had set by the time Sherlock surfaced. John was on his second cup of tea and enjoying his novel when the door opened and he heard the familiar footfalls on the stairs. “Oh.” John twisted in his chair when Sherlock paused in the doorway. “John, I didn’t realize you’d be home.”

John raised a brow at the tone of, was that disappointment, in Sherlock’s voice. “Where else would I be?”

Sherlock frowned. “Your shifts average nine hours, twelve on the worst days, eight on the short end. The seventh hour has just turned, and that’s not accounting for the time it would take to return. The weather is tolerable; you likely walked, adding an extra twenty minutes to your commute. Regardless, you like to shower when you’re back, a bath if it was a particularly trying day, allowing another fifteen minutes. So I’d rather expected that you’d be at work, or between work and here, or in the bath, not actually here. Not with a cuppa, your second, no? Reading. Not yet.”

“H-how…” A half smile pinched the corner of John’s face as his eyes narrowed. “No, never mind. It was a short shift. Sarah went home sick and I stepped in for the remainder of the day. And what’s that in your hands?”

Sherlock glanced down at the two bags and shifted for a moment. “I picked up dinner on my way home.” He spun on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen, his coat whirling behind him. “And did the shopping. We were out of milk.”

John eased himself out of the chair and followed Sherlock’s progress with his eyes. It was only a moment before Sherlock paused, milk in one hand, fridge door in the other, staring blankly at the fresh carton already in place. “Forgive me, but I already collected milk,” John murmured.

“Why would you get milk?” Sherlock demanded, rounding on John.

John crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “You never get the milk.”

“I do… On occasion,” he drew himself up to his full height.

“And you certainly don’t clean,” John added casually.

“I clean,” Sherlock said firmly. “I, sometimes, I clean.”

“And you never bring home dinner,” John’s head tilted as he watched Sherlock’s expressions oscillate rapidly.

“I do too!” Sherlock snapped.

“Well you never eat it,” John offered.

“Maybe I’m not hungry!”

“Which begs the question,” John wet his lips. “What did you do?”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. “Why would you assume I’ve done something wrong?”

John raised a single brow.

“Oh, of course,” Sherlock gestured wildly with the carton of milk still in his hand. “The one time I singe the carpet and clean up after, clearly now anytime I do something nice for you I must be hiding something terrible.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And did you?”

“No!” Sherlock threw his arms in the air.

“So,” John straightened. He sucked in his lower lip, trapping it with his teeth as he eyed Sherlock. “No,” he shook his head and dropped his arms. “Nope, I don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s frown bordered dangerously on a pout. “Understand what?”

“Why you’re cross that I’m home,” John said frankly.

“I’m not mad that you’re home!” Sherlock whined.

John’s mouth twitched. “Ok. And why this? All this. The cleaning, the food, the everything.”

“Because!” Sherlock huffed.

The wry smile spread up from John’s mouth to the corners of his eyes. “Because why?”

“Because.” Sherlock slammed his empty palm on the counter. “Because we’ve been two weeks without a case and it’s making me insufferable. And don’t say I’m not; I am. I can’t even stand to be around me right now. Because you’ve worked more hours in the surgery in the past month than in the whole first year of our acquaintance and it’s causing you stress. Because the weather has been horrid and your shoulder has been paining you. Because you woke up three times in the past week with nightmares and you won’t mention them in the mornings. Because of the paperwork you’ve been doing when you think I’m not home, and yes I know about it, of course I know about it, how could you possibly imagine I wouldn’t be aware of it? Because you’re tetchy. Because you’re not eating enough. Because I love you and it’s clearly the very least I can do every now and then!”

 Sherlock froze, silence stretching out in the small space between them. John swallowed slowly, releasing a breath as he watch Sherlock’s rapid blinking. His tongue rolled across his lower lip and he nodded carefully. “Ok.” He closed his fingers around the milk carton, brushing across Sherlock’s tense knuckles as he eased it from his grasp. “Ok,” John repeated, standing on his toes to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock blinked a few more times as John placed he milk in the fridge where it belonged. “Those are all brilliant reasons.”

Sherlock turned cautiously, chewing on his lower lip, the blinking seemed to be slowing down. “Yeah?”

John huffed out a laugh. “Of course it is, luv.”


	5. That Would Be Unprofessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a question bouncing around from darlingbenny that a few people had answered: who would you be if you live in bbc sherlock universe? like your own character.
> 
> There were a few answers I'd read, and then I really thought about it. Me... being me... but somehow in the BBC Sherlock universe... And I came up with this answer: So here’s the thing: If I lived in the BBC Sherlock universe, I’d 100% be the overworked A&E/Emergency doc that has to continuously deal with these two idiots whenever they wind up injured…
> 
> Then I decided it needed a little fic. So I fic'd it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/92311414778/who-would-you-be-if-you-live-in-bbc-sherlock-universe

“No. You know what? Just no.” I held up a silencing hand on instinct. “Before you let loose what I fully expect to be a scathing diatribe, flawlessly constructed to belittle, distress, and shame me into slinking away to sob into my sixth, crappy cup of coffee today, let me say this. And I want you to know full well that I’m speaking from a place of righteous, iatrical fury and not a defensive, vengeful anger. This pile of paper,” I gestured to the file-folder I’d slammed down on the table. “Is a six-inch, physical manifestation of the sheer volume of idiotic decisions that the pair of you make. Each sheet is an AMA that one or both of you signed.” I pointed empathically at each of them. “When you decided that you knew better than I did. When you took your life into your own hands, in spite, _in SPITE_ of seeking my opinion in the first place.”

I scowled at Sherlock. “Ignoring the number of times you refused to stay for antibiotics, because John could give them to you later; left without a tetanus shot, because you,” I used sarcastic air quotes when I was cross, “Never get sick.” In fairness, he seemed rather indestructible. “Or wandered off post-head injury, because you were certain you weren’t confused or showing _ANY_ signs of concussion, and for the record, yes you fucking were; didn’t bother waiting to sign the papers and just absconded, probably because it was easier; and I will still need both hands to count the absolutely moronic and bloody-fucking dangerous times you’ve refused admission.”

He frowned and I pitched my voice to mock his diction, “Oh, Dr. Murphy, you still need to count on your fingers? How telling.” I glared. “Yes, how telling. Had it been legal, I’d have strapped your self-destructive arse to the bed. I work absurd hours. I don’t sleep for worry over my patients. I practically live in this hospital. I have no life. And I used to brush it off, because we were invariably understaffed and overworked and I had people trying to die here. Thankfully it’s quiet tonight! And I’m willing to throw a temper-tantrum in the middle of my A&E, because I’ve finally had enough of you!” I gestured at John Watson, “He stays. He gets admitted. And you,” I pointed definitively at Sherlock, “you don’t sign him out, you don’t sneak him out, he doesn’t wander off after you. Yes, I admit that he can probably suture better than I can, sure his hands are steadier than mine, he’s much more composed professionally than me, I bet he fucks better than I could ever dream of. But you can’t. So for the love of all that is holy, sit your ass down and hold his hand until he’s been admitted to the ward, or kiss him goodnight and get the fuck out of my department!” I clenched my jaw and glowered at him.

His head tilted ever so slightly and his face twitched; it was a micro expression, there and gone in a flash, but I saw it: tightening around the eyes, narrowing of the brows, the tiniest curl of his upper lip. He opened his mouth to inhale and I decided I couldn’t be trusted to stay in his presence. I had another four hours left on shift, and I couldn’t afford to cry. And the last time he’d laid into me, I’d found myself emotionally crippled for a week. All that simply because John Watson had been punched in the eye and was therefore unavailable to suture the knife-wound on Sherlock bloody Holmes’ forearm; and I was on duty.

“No,” I hissed before he could even start. “Don’t even think about it. Because I’ve been itching for a fight, and I’d rather keep my job, thanks so much. So unless you’ve magically learned the warning signs for a tension pneumo and are fully prepared to stab him in the chest the same way I did, then just shut it! Shut it and sit down, or I’ll go talk to that DI from before and we’ll discuss _exactly_ how you showed up on scene. Clear?”

I refused to run. But I didn’t wait for an answer either. I turned on my heel and stomped out of the cubicle. I kept my shoulders square, my hands fisted at my sides, and my strides crisp and deliberate. Maybe a bit quick, but I wasn’t running away. As the curtain dropped back into place in my wake, I heard John Watson giggle, “I like her.” He chuckled again. Were grown men allowed to giggle? I tried not to second-guess my dose of analgesic, but I repeated the math in my head nonetheless.

Around the corner, out of sight of the obs floor, I slumped into a chair and dropped my head into my hands. “That was unprofessional,” I groaned to the empty hallway. “And when you go back there, he’s going to eviscerate you. And you’re going to deserve it. And he’ll probably have just taken John home and ignored everything you said. And eventually one of them is going to get themselves killed. And you will get fired for being so fucking unprofessional!” I let out a frustrated growl.

A cup of coffee slid into my hands and I winced before glancing up, half expecting to get slugged. The DI flashed a lop-sided grin. “If people got fired for being unprofessional around Sherlock, the Met would be empty.”


	6. Meaning, you think I like a drink?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a great gif of the conversation between Molly and Sherlock regarding the ability to drink (done by OhGodBenny). And in the process of the conversation, I admitted to one of my favorite head canons. That Molly could drink John and Greg under the table. So I said, "New head canon: One time, John went out to meet Lestrade for a drink at the pub, and Greg ran into Molly just after her engagement had broken off. So Greg invited Molly along. Molly drank them both under the table and had to put them into cabs home at the end of the night."
> 
> Then I decided it needed to be fic'ed... And I did...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/92328942988/benedictervention

Greg sighed and scratched at his scalp absently while eying his phone. If he hurried, he might escape before another case landed in his lap, or Donovan noticed the amount of paperwork he’d left to finish. He really wanted the day to be over, and a good round of pints with the match on at the local was just the thing. The fact that he’d be joined by John would only add to the entertainment. John’s dark sense of humor was increasingly amusing in his current mind set.

He glanced into the bullpen. Enough people looked distracted, run down, busy with something. With a small huff, he stood and swept on his coat. No one would notice if he ducked out a few minutes early. He nearly made a clean break. He was out of the division, down the elevator, and crossing the lobby before he made the mistake of checking his phone again.

_Hey, mate. Just done. Closing up now. See you at the local. – John_

Greg’s face tugged back in a lop-sided grin as he typed out a quick affirmative. He hit the send button and promptly ran smack into another person. “Sorry,” he stuck out a hand to catch the smaller person.

“No, sorry, nevermind,” came the small response.

He managed to pocket his phone as he glanced down. “Oh, Molly, no. Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Oh, um, hi, Detective Inspector,” Molly stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, gesturing through the fabric. “No, it’s fine. No one sees me anyway. It’s fine.”

Greg felt his nose wrinkle as he released her elbow. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

Molly flushed and toyed with her scarf before forcing a fake smile. “Quite true.”

“Uh.” He glanced around the lobby of the Met. “Whatchya doing here?”

“Hm? Oh. Just dropping off a file from the last PM I did. They said it was urgent, so I offered to,” she gestured aimlessly at the ceiling.

Greg snorted. “Brave.”

She shrugged. “I’ve no where better to be.”

Greg blinked and his face scrunched for a moment. “Oh. Shit, Molly. I didn’t…” He pressed his fingers to his lips. He’d heard that her engagement had ended, and poorly at that. And he’d been so wrapped up in… Ugh… “Look. I’m off for a pint. You wanna join?”

“For a pint?” Molly asked innocently.

“Yeah, I mean,” he flashed a grin. “It’s just to the local. Match is on, and John needs a break, so we normally have a few. It’s no big deal. You should come.”

Molly blushed again. “Um… Yeah. Alright.” She nodded. “I… That could be fun.”

His smile relaxed into something more natural. “Come on, it’s only a few blocks. We can walk it.”

A few brisk minutes down the road, Greg pushed into the local pub. He gave John a wave and nudged Molly towards the booth John had found as he went to collect a round at the bar. He wove his way through the after-work crowd and set the three pints in the middle of their table, catching the tail end of the something Molly was saying.

“… Can’t curium, you barium.”

John snickered and flashed Greg a wide smile, “You didn’t tell me Molly would be joining us.”

Greg took a seat next to Molly and glanced over the rim of his pint. “That a problem?”

“Not if she has more jokes for us,” John winked at Molly. “I mean, I tried to learn some chemistry jokes, but all the good ones argon.”

Molly laughed into her full beer and nearly lost a quarter of it with the splash. Greg smiled weakly. “Did you hear that oxygen and potassium went out on a date,” Molly asked conversationally. Greg raised his brows. “Yeah, it went OK.”

John chuckled and started in on his pint. Greg did the same.

“Then a week later, oxygen asked out magnesium instead,” Molly continued. “And it was like, OMG!”

John actually snorted. “Is this what you do when not processing a body? Sit around and think of terrible chemistry jokes?”

Molly shrugged. “Don’t you know any good doctor jokes? I’ve heard that the surgeons have all the good morbid jokes.”

“Depends on the species,” John grinned. “Orthopods are filthy. Vascular are punny. Colorectal are full of shit.”

Ok, Greg understood that one. He chuckled alongside Molly. “What does that make you then, Doctor Watson?”

John pursed his lips for a moment. “Oh I’m a GP now. I don’t think I have a surgeon’s sense of humor anymore.”

“GPs aren’t allowed a sense of humor,” Molly said sarcastically.

“None at all,” John shook his head slowly.

Greg let out a loud laugh. “I very much doubt that!”

“And what about your army days?” Molly asked innocently.

“Oh now,” John raised a brow. “I’m not nearly drunk enough for that. But I think this is my round? Same?”

Greg gave a nod of affirmation. “We’ll be ready for it by the time you’re back.” And he held up his nearly empty pint glass in mock salute.

“Oh, did you hear the one about the fresh army recruit?” John asked as he stood next to the table. “His CO came in and demanded to know the SitRep. Poor kid looked up,” John sat down and stood up with a confused look on his face. “One, Sir.”

All three of them snickered as John headed to the bar for another round.

 

~o~

 

Greg burst out laughing in a deep, hearty way. In spite of the laugh-lines around his eyes, the amusement made him look younger, gleeful. He tipped sideways and had to brace himself with an arm on the back of the booth behind Molly’s slight shoulders.

John’s gesticulating continued, more hand motion and facial expression than actual words. He paused in his actual story line to make a strange whistle noise that resulted in him laughing at himself. Molly giggled. Both men were red in the face and clearly beyond tipsy and somehow it just felt normal.

“You know,” Molly began. “That makes no sense at all.”

John giggled and Greg scoffed. “None of us is in any place to do the necessary mathematics.” Greg scooted a bit closer to Molly’s side, his voice just touch too loud and his eyes blinking heavier than sobriety would dictate. “I mean, look at us. We’re all just screwed in love, yeah?”

John blew out a scoff between pursed lips. “Too right.”

“At least I didn’t marry mine,” Molly whispered with a smirk. The entire table erupted in laughter again. “What?” she asked in mock innocence. “Am I the only one smart enough to avoid alimony?”

“Molly Hooper, you’re a dangerous woman,” John muttered, wiping away a tear when he finally stopped laughing. His mobile phone rang loudly within his jacket pocket. He fumbled with it for a moment before squinting at the screen. “Oh look, it’s the wife,” he muttered wryly and connected the call. Greg winced at the tirade that was loud enough for him to hear on the opposite side of the table.

“John, where are you? That ridiculous event you deign to call sport ended hours ago. You cannot possibly be still at the pub.”

John licked his lips slowly. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Are you drunk? John, it was going to be one pint and you were going to bring dinner home. I’m bored. Booooored, John. And hungry. And as you so often heavy-handily attempt to cajole me to eat whatever travesty you pass off as sustenance, I expect you to actually provide when I’m willing to consume it.”

The grin spread across John’s face as he tried to suppress the urge to giggle. “So, let me get this straight. You called me, because you need me to bring you dinner?”

There was a loud huff followed by a few choice cuss words. “Jawn!”

This time John laughed. “Alright, alright, Thai ok?”

“Ok does not cover the sentiment.”

“S’alright. I’ll be back soon.” John hung up the phone and jammed it back into his pocket as he pushed himself upright. He shrugged eloquently, “Duty calls.” All three of them burst out laughing. “This has been fun, though.”

“Mmn,” Greg nodded and slid out of the booth himself. “May not be worth the pain tomorrow.” He planted both palms unsteadily on the table as he blinked away the woozy feeling. “I can feel the fear already.”

John may have swayed, but he looked a bit steadier on his feet. He clapped Greg on the back and both of them tilted from the contact. “Overindulgence,” John chuckled.

Molly slid out of the booth and smiled brightly. “Really? I’m feeling quite pleasant right now.”

Greg squinted at her as he tried to take his hands off the table without stumbling. “Are you serious?” His balance faltered as he straightened and he dropped a hand onto Molly shoulder before he fell. John laughed and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets as he made his way toward the door. His balance may have been better, but the dopey grin, flushed cheeks, and occasional hiccup were clear signs of intoxication. Molly slid a hand around Greg’s waist to keep him on his feet until they made it outside. “This is embarrassing,” he complained.

Out on the curb, the chilled air seemed to perk them up as John continuously failed to hail a taxi. “Where is Sherlock when you need him?”

Molly chuckled. “Look at you two light-weights.” She tucked two fingers into her mouth and let out a sharp, ear-piercing whistle that had Greg flinching away. A taxi appeared immediately. John held the door open as Molly tucked Greg into the back seat. “You first, Lush.”

Greg gave her a broad smile and patted her cheek. “You’re a good egg, Hooper.”

Molly flushed. “I should video this with my phone, shouldn’t I?”

Greg’s smile grew. “You wouldn’t dare.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek.

John cleared his throat loudly. “Well, I’m off. Night you two.”

Molly laughed. “Mind your business, John Watson. Or I’ll tell Sherlock.”

He grinned back. “You wouldn’t dare.”


	7. Call Me About That Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fact 1: Navydream is an incredible artist  
> Fact 2: Her work makes me happy, makes me coo, makes me blush... because seriously... damn...  
> Fact 3: People reblog stuff of hers that I've never seen before... Please refer back to #1 and #2.
> 
> So... a one shot of hers rolled up on my dash today. I needed to write it. So... ficlet!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tumblr post: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/96988952208/navydream-i-didnt-get-to-participate-on-this
> 
> And Navy's original tumblr image: http://navydream.tumblr.com/post/41343742780/i-didnt-get-to-participate-on-this-johnlock

It was the fourth time that week he’d been climbing the bloody ladder, searching for multiple rare editions to appease the unusual customer. He sighed as he found the odd copy of the first print of the Hemingway. “Knew I had it somewhere.” John presented the book triumphantly to the taller man with a smile. “Here you go, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” the man said absently as he studied the binding and overall condition of the book. It was becoming a routine for them. Same conversation every time.

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr.- Sorry, Sherlock?” John cleared his throat and glanced around before flashing him a polite smile.

Sherlock’s eyes rose from the book and ran from the soles of John’s shoes up to the crown of his head. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a wry smirk, “Why are you here, John?”

John’s whole body flinched at the abruptness of the question. “Uh… I work here.” He shook his head slightly. “This is my job. Where I work.”

Sherlock’s gaze tightened. “I mean, why are you, a man with a plethora of skills that extend beyond the ability to shimmy up and down a ladder in search of a book, doing a job that a secondary school dropout could perform for far less pay.”

“Maybe I like my job,” John bristled.

Sherlock hummed absently. “And when is your final draft due to the editor?”

“My- How do you know about that?”

Sherlock smirked again. “I’m a collector, John Watson. I’m well aware of the pseudonyms floating about. And yet, instead of working on your next masterpiece, you insist on flouncing about in a minimally profitable bookshop, wearing an insulting nametag and absurd sweater-vests.”

John liked his sweater-vests. He crossed his arms. “If this is some sideways attempt at attaining an interview, I’ll tell you right now to stuff it.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Please,” he added condescendingly. “If I wanted something so ridiculously superficial, I would simply ask for it.”

John sucked in a breath and thought better of the harsh words on the tip of his tongue. He blinked at Sherlock for a moment. “If? If that’s not why you’re here, then what?”

“What?”

“Then… what is it you want?” John asked cautiously.

The book snapped shut in Sherlock’s palm. “Telling you would be cheating.” He winked and spun on his heel, the long wool coat swirling like a cape, and left John scratching his head in his wake.

 

~o~

 

John glanced up from his desk at the tinkle of the bell, a familiar, tall, wild haired figure silhouetted in the doorframe. Sherlock, John thought with a sigh. Back again. As he had been every night for the past ten days now. If John didn’t know better, he’d have thought the man was flirting. But who would care enough to flirt with John Watson? Certainly no one that looked like Sherlock Holmes. Besides Sherlock did buy each of the books he sent John into the stacks to find. Odd bloke, but… interesting? Unusual. Not unpleasant. Just… Quirky? And gorgeous. John shook himself. “Calm down, Watson.”

Sherlock made his way to the back of the store, seeking out John’s office with unfailing accuracy every time. He tapped lightly on the door and waited for John to wave him in. John did, “So, what challenge have you got for me this evening?”

Sherlock grinned and handed a slip of paper over the desk. “I like this one.”

John unfolded the paper and frowned. He immediately recognized the title, hell he’d written the damn book himself. The pseudonym had always ensured his anonymity, but somehow, Sherlock Holmes had taken in upon himself to solve that little problem. “Oh you are a right arse, you know that?”

Sherlock chuckled. “If any store would have a copy of the first edition, leather bound, signed by the author, I would say it’d be here.”

John cleared his throat and raised a brow. “I heard the author never signed any copies.”

Sherlock tilted his head coyly. “I have a habit of getting what I want.”

John chuckled. “I bet you do.” He shook his head wryly and pushed up from the chair. “Alright, let’s have a nose around. I might have an idea where I can find this.”

Sherlock shadowed him out of the office and through the stacks, staying a half step behind John’s right shoulder. It would normally have been an invasion of his personal space, but John somehow didn’t mind. No matter how many times he stopped to scan a shelf, racking his brain for the corner he’d shoved the book into, Sherlock never bumped into him; always hovering, maintaining the same, exact, three inches of distance. John paused in front of a particularly high shelf and tilted his head to the side. “Yup, this is the one,” he said with finality.

“How do you know?” Sherlock asked amusedly.

“Hm?” John wheeled the ladder over.

“How do you know this is the spot?”

John smiled. “Because I do.”

“You seem confident.”

“I am.”

“Confident enough to bet on it?” Sherlock pushed, a rather shrewd look passing over his face.

“Yeah, I would be. What are the stakes?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“If I win,” Sherlock leaned in, placing a hand carefully against the shelf at John’s back. “I get that autograph.”

John rolled his eyes. “And what do I get when I win?”

“Hm.” Sherlock raked his eyes over John. “That depends on what it is you want.”

“Alright.” John pursed his lips as he thought. “When I win, you buy me a proper drink and actually answer whatever questions I ask.”

Sherlock’s teeth flashed in his smile. “Deal.”

John stuck out his hand and they shook on it. Sherlock straightened up, returning the small amount of space between them. “Do you want to fetch it? You know, for the sake of the integrity of the bet?” John waved a hand at the ladder.

“Oh no,” Sherlock smirked. “By all means. I’ve had over a week of watching you dig around these shelves. You seem quite adept at it.”

“Git,” John murmured. And he turned to climb the ladder.

“By the by,” Sherlock started, aborting John’s ascent. “Which shelf is it?”

John snorted, “Top shelf.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” And John quickly scaled the rungs. “Enjoying the view?” John muttered as he reached the top of the ladder. For a moment, he thought he heard a low hum in the affirmative, but when he glanced down over his shoulder, Sherlock was paging carefully through a book. John shook his head as he reached into shelf. He nearly had to bend in half to reach behind the haphazard stack on the top shelf. “Ah ha!” he closed his fingers around the book in question. He straightened up and shook dust from his hair before starting back down the ladder. “Knew I had it somewhere.”

“Sherlock,” the man muttered preemptively.

John turned to jump the last few feet as was his habit and his foot slipped. “Shit!” He threw his weight back, but felt his body drop, bouncing down the rungs. He flailed, trying to grab the ladder and winced as his tailbone slammed into one of the rungs. John’s fall came to sudden stop and he found himself face to face with Sherlock. Both of Sherlock’s hands were firmly planted on in his armpits, his lithe body slotted into the space between John’s legs, pinning him back into the ladder and halting his downward progress. “Oh.”

John blinked, clutching the book tightly in his right hand, his entire field of vision occupied with the unusual silver-green of Sherlock’s eyes. “Alright?” Sherlock’s voice breezed across John’s cheek, and John felt his face flush a deep shade of red.

John huffed out a light chuckle and swallowed. “Yeah. Think so.”

Sherlock didn’t make any attempt to move away, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny, tracing the contours of John’s face. John found himself holding his breath for no apparent reason, swallowing heavily. He wet his lips as his eyes were drawn to Sherlock’s mouth, which twitched in the beginning of a smile. Then the hands now at his shoulder blades flexed and he tipped forward, Sherlock catching him again, this time in a firm lip lock.

John’s eyes went wide, the contact shocking. Shocking and warm. And soft. God his lips were soft. And John felt his eyes flutter shut at the barest scrape of teeth against his lower lip. He let out a breathy groan as Sherlock eased back. “You should be more careful,” Sherlock purred. “Some things are irreplaceable.” He deftly plucked the book from John’s loosened grip and flashed a smile as he headed for the register. “My card is in your pocket. Call me about that drink.”


	8. 999? Yes, We’ll Be Needing All the Services

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it's Christmas the 1st, and I've been pouring on the angst, I felt like I needed to make a non-sad contribution. So I did up an AU tumblr prompt. The prompt came from iggycat: Someone needs to write a ‘the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear’ AU
> 
> Totally un-beta-ed and maybe a single read-through for edits. I apologize for any grammatical problems. I got a bit silly and wrote it all in one day... I hope you enjoy it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to Tumblr conversation: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/100734982138/iggycat-someone-needs-to-write-a-the-fire

John jerked awake in a panic, fumbling on his nightstand for the bleep that must be making that horrible sound. He winced, scratched the back of his head, and forced his eyes open. Then he frowned. He was at home. He was in his flat. He wasn’t on call, he wasn’t in the res, he wasn’t about to run to the A&E or to the ward or to theatre. He winced again. What the fuck was that noise then?

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, hoping the sound would stop. It didn’t. He dropped his hands and his eyes squinted into the dark. He fumbled for his clock, not the alarm. Jesus, it was half three and that sound was getting louder. Not a bleep, not the clock, he didn’t have a security system. What? Was that smoke? He… Shit.

John launched himself out of bed and scrambled to grab his phone and keys, stuffing his feet into whatever footwear was available. As an afterthought, he snagged the jumper sitting on his chair as he flew out the door. The smoke was thicker in the hallway, noxious and metallic. John sputtered and held the jumper to his face as his eyes teared up. Second floor was the top floor of his block of flats, and the central stairwell was the only way out; and it was shockingly empty. Shit. Shit, shit, bugger, fuck, shit. John pounded firmly on the door across from his. “Fire! Everyone out!”

He moved as fast as he could, pounding on each of the doors as he headed for fresh air. By the time he made it to the pavement, the smell of smoke was powerful enough that he was nearly wheezing with it. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, wiping the tears from his eyes and taking stock. “Is everyone out?”

He did a mini headcount. Ground A, yes, damn, Janey looked cross. Ground B, both kids, dad… “Hey, Sam, is Steve at work?” Sam nodded. Ok. 1A, out of town for the week. 1B, Terry looked a bit tense as she emerged from the building. “Ter, you have your inhaler?” Terry tugged it out of her pocket and gave it a shake. “No harm in having a puff. That smoke is thick.” 2A, yeah, that’d be John, he was grand. John coughed again. 2B… Where was the bloke from 2B? He was new, just moved in three weeks ago. John knew he was there, but hadn’t met him yet; not with the nightshifts and call he’d been working. “Anyone seen the guy from 2B?”

“Probably on fire,” Terry mumbled.

“What?”

“John, it’s the third night in a row,” Sam murmured, tucking his youngest against his shoulder. “If he actually burns the flats down, maybe we’ll get some sleep.”

John raked a hand through his hair. “Was he home?”

Janey crossed her arms and dropped onto one of the benches, “Must be. He’s the one that probably set off the alarm.”

“Has anyone called the fire brigade?”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Sam.” John wrinkled his nose and stared up at the building. There were now visible wisps of smoke etching a path into the crisp night air. He tilted his head back and forth, weighing the options, his face pulling into a tight grimace. “Fuck.” He was going to have to go back in. “Terry, can you hang onto these?” He tossed his jumper, phone, and keys to the woman.

“John, no.”

He chewed on his bottom lip in a moment of indecision. “Nope. That smoke is brutal. I’ll be back.” He tucked the collar of his tee-shirt up over his nose and ducked his head, tugging the front door open. The smoke was worse now, thick, black, and blinding. He made it to the foot of the stairs, reaching for the railing to guide his direction.

“Not to be judgmental, but I believe you’re going the wrong way.”

It was nearly pitch black in the hall, the piercing sound of the fire alarm still violating the nighttime calm. And yet the deep voice rumbled over the distractions and John froze with his foot on the bottom step.

A large palm cupped his shoulder and turned him back toward the front door. “Trust me; better out than in.”

It had to be the bloke from 2B; there was no one else left in the building. And as fun as it seemed to go up three flights to be sure, John was willing to take it at face value. As he pushed back out the front door, the night air hit him like a cool wall and he staggered out onto the pavement. He planted his hands on his thighs and gave a few powerful coughs before trying to spit the taste from his mouth. Gross.

John turned back toward the door to see the man emerge from the smoke filled entryway. He strode out into night without a bother on him, snapping up the collar of his tailored coat with ease. John shook his head and retrieved his jumper from Terry, struggling into it and accepting his keys and phone. Shit, when did it get so cold?

“Nice going, Sherlock,” Janey hissed from the bench. “As if we haven’t seen this side of three am enough this week.”

John straightened and cleared his throat. “Thanks, Janey; that’s enough.” Janey grumbled but held her tongue. “Sam, did they give you an ETA?”

“Another ten or so.”

“Right,” he scrubbed a palm across his face and sighed, making his way across the footpath toward 2B. “So,” he raised a brow. “You’re the new guy?”

The man raised his eyebrows and turned back to face the building. “I’m the new guy.”

“John,” he stuck out his hand. “John Watson.”

“Yes,” the man purred, giving his hand a quick shake before tucking both hands into his pockets. “Our erstwhile 2A resident. Originally from Surrey, studied at King’s, third year surgical trainee from Bart’s, trauma subspecialty, social rugby player, private drinker, non-smoker, and a cancer, I believe, if you put stock in such mindless rubbish.”

“When you put it like that, hard to put stock in it.” John felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “You rooting through my rubbish bins or something?”

John could have sworn he saw the flicker of a smile in response. “Mmn.” The man gave a small nod and gazed up at the window of his flat. “I deduced it.”

“So…” John crossed his arms over his chest, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to keep the blood flowing. Damn, it was really chilly. He suddenly wished he had trousers on. “Any idea why the fire alarm is going off at three am?”

“I suspect it’s quite similar to the reason for the fire alarm last night,” the man answered, his hands clenching and unclenching in the pockets of his coat.

“Oh?” John shivered, letting out a huff of breath that clouded the air. “I was on call; sorry I missed it.” He gave a wry smile. The man smirked. “Any idea why the fire alarm was going off last night then?” The man opened his mouth and John cut him off. “And if it’s the same as the night before last, I’m only going to ask you what caused that one.”

“Hmm,” the man wrinkled his nose and pouted slightly. “Slight proportional miscalculation.”

John blinked. “Proportional miscalculation?”

“One of the reagents was contaminated and the resultant exothermic reaction was logarithmically preponderant.”

John turned his body to fully face the man and pursed his lips. “You counted wrong?”

“I didn’t count wrong,” the man said haughtily.

“You counted wrong,” John chuckled. “You counted wrong and blew up your kitchen.”

The man glared at him. “I did no such thing.”

John’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Not only did you blow up your kitchen. You’ve gone and done it three nights in a row.”

The man huffed indignantly.

“What?” John smiled broadly. “Not your kitchen? Did you blow up your loo then?”

The man’s head swiveled on his neck, pinning John with a quizzical stare. John’s grin dropped into a curious smile that questioned right back. “It was the sofa, thank you very much,” the man said finally.

John gave a slow nod. “Ah, yes. Of course it was the sofa.”

“Obviously.”

“Clearly.” John rocked forward and back in his still unlaced boots. “All three times?”

“Of course.”

“Mmn.” John dropped his head to stare at the tips of his toes for a moment. “Where will you sit, then?” He glanced up from beneath his lashes.

The man’s face twitched comically. “Where will I… Sit?”

“Not the question you were expecting?” John chuckled.

A corresponding smile bloomed on the man’s face. “Wasn’t expecting questions at all.”

“No? What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John blinked twice and doubled over in a fit of giggles. He laughed hard enough that there were tears in his eyes, only belatedly recognizing the low rumble of the man’s laugh joining his. It took a moment for John to regain control of himself, wiping a tear away and waving a hand, “Stop. Stop, we can’t… We can’t giggle.” He let out a high breath. “We can’t.”

The man hummed and sucked in his lower lip. “Why on earth not?”

“Two grown men, standing outside at four am, in their pants, laughing like a pair of loons? Jesus, they’ll put us away.” John tucked his hands up into his armpits.

“At least I had the common decency to put on a long coat,” the man mumbled.

He wasn’t going to be cowed just because he was in his boxers. “At least I have the common sense not to blow up my own couch,” John countered.

“Mmn,” the man shifted again. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes,” he said finally, holding out a hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” John grinned. “I like your pants,” he winked.

Sherlock Holmes blushed and snapped his coat closed over his black boxer briefs. “Childish,” he huffed.

“Out of curiosity,” John said conversationally. “Were you actually sitting around doing a combustible experiment in just your pants?”

“Sadly, my trousers were on the couch as well,” Sherlock answered. “Couldn’t be saved.”

“Tragic,” John said wryly.

“And your trousers? Are they on strike?”

“Hm?” John looked up innocently. “I was asleep, Sherlock Holmes. And I’m not in the habit of sleeping in my trousers.” The faint sound of a siren gathered volume. “Or couldn’t you deduce that?”

“But why the jumper? You picked a jumper instead of trousers?”

“Post call,” John huffed. “And you picked a coat over a shirt. Which one of us is cutting glass?”

Sherlock snorted in response.

John ran a hand through his hair, shaking out shaggy blond strands. “I was rather fond of this flat. Pity.”

“Oh it’s not going to burn down. There is no fire,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“No fire?”

“Not all exothermic reactions produce fire, John. I would expect a doctor to be aware of such things.”

John gaped at him. “There’s no fire.”

“I do hate repeating myself,” Sherlock complained.

John gave him a stern look. “And yet you’ve done this three nights in a row.”

Sherlock glanced over John’s head as the fire engine pulled up to the curb. “For science, John.”

John burst out laughing again. “You’re an idiot.”

“I assure you, I’m quite clever,” Sherlock frowned.

“You’re a clever idiot,” John chuckled.

“Jesus, Sherlock, Again?!”

Sherlock tossed his keys to the firefighter. “It’s 2B.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember.”

John smirked. “I see they’re on a first name basis with you already. You’re going to need a new couch.”

“I’m going to need a new landlord. I have the distinct impression I won’t be welcome here much longer.”

“True, true.” John watched a pair of the laddermen head into the flats. “How long do they usually take?”

“An hour.”

“No wonder everyone is bundled up.” John chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “Sod this. You hungry?”

Sherlock gave him a concerned look. “I doubt even the chippers would let us in dressed as we are.”

“I’ve some scrubs in my car.” John bobbed his head toward the end of the block. “I may even have some long enough for those giraffe legs of yours.”

“Giraffe legs?” Sherlock huffed.

“Clothing is going to come at a price, Mr. Holmes,” John headed for his car, suddenly grateful he’d thought to put on his boots.

“What’s the price?” Sherlock caught up easily, falling in step beside him.

“Did you remember your wallet?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” John echoed sarcastically. “Then the price is curry.”

“Extortion,” Sherlock muttered.

“Commensurate,” John countered, stopping at the back of a small car.

“Very well,” Sherlock sighed, resting his hip against the side of John’s beat up compact.

John unlocked the boot and started rooting around, emerging with a triumphant “Ah-ha!” He tossed a pair of scrubs at Sherlock, then perched on the bumper to tug on his jeans.

“Why on earth would you have an extra-large pair of scrubs in your boot?” Sherlock wondered.

“As a joke,” John said flatly. “The lads thought I might need them if I ever hit a growth spurt.” He turned back into the boot and dug around some more. “Here. This will keep you warmer.”

Sherlock caught the red and blue striped jersey and eyed it. “So I was right about King’s College and the rugby?”

John shrugged into a worn leather jacket and closed the boot with a firm shove. “I’m trying to think of something you’ve been wrong about. Except for counting.” He turned to face Sherlock and burst out laughing again.

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

John waved a hand up and down. “It’s just…”

Sherlock glanced down his front. He was swimming in the jersey and scrubs, the bold red and blue standing out in shocking contrast to the green of the scrubs and navy wool of his coat. “I don’t think you’re in any position to mock my attire,” Sherlock grumbled.

John grinned and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the boot. “Oh really?”

Sherlock bit back a snide comment when he realized that John Watson was completely in the position to mock his attire. The worn jeans fitted him like a glove and the leather jacket was loved and contoured to drape perfectly over the broad shoulders. “I… well… Fine…” Sherlock mumbled. “But really, John. Red pants?”

“Thank God I was wearing them,” John chuckled. “They’re my favorite pair.”

“Of course they are.”

John uncrossed his arms and pushed off the car. “Come on Sherlock Holmes, you’re buying me dinner.”


	9. Fall On Your Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Based on Earlgreytea68's Advent Drabble 15:**
> 
>  
> 
> “But you know how happy it makes Mother,” said Mycroft.  
> Sherlock frowned. “Why don’t you ever have to sing in the choir?”  
> “Because I am tone-deaf,” said Mycroft loftily.  
> John said, “You sing in the choir?”  
> “At the Christmas service,” said Mycroft. “Every year. He has a glorious voice.”  
> “And so does Mycroft. He’s lying about being tone-deaf. I’m going to prove it one of these days.” Sherlock glowered.  
> Mycroft blandly sipped his tea.  
> “I’m suddenly very much looking forward to Christmas service,” remarked John.  
> “Good,” said Mycroft. “Because Mother volunteered you to play a shepherd in the Nativity play.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's not Wednesday yet, it's not time for angst. So here's a little fluff... Some Christmas fluff.
> 
> Tumblr Prompt: http://earlgreytea68.tumblr.com/post/105823568771/ewebie-earlgreytea68-spunkyjcb-replied-to

“But you know how happy it makes Mother,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock frowned. “Why don’t _you_ ever have to sing in the choir?”

“Because I am tone-deaf,” said Mycroft loftily.

John said, “You sing in the choir?”

“At the Christmas service,” said Mycroft. “Every year. He has a glorious voice.”

“And so does Mycroft. He’s lying about being tone-deaf. I’m going to prove it one of these days.” Sherlock glowered.

Mycroft blandly sipped his tea.

“I’m suddenly very much looking forward to Christmas service,” remarked John.

“Good,” said Mycroft. “Because Mother volunteered you to play a shepherd in the Nativity play.”

John choked on his tea, “I’m sorry, what?”

Mycroft flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rehearsal is at half six. Be there.” He stood and glared at Sherlock. “Sherlock.”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock waved a hand absently. “Just leave.”

Mycroft’s pleased smirk as he departed only left John more aghast. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock cocked a brow without opening his eyes.

“Are we? Did you just agree to do this Christmas service thing?”

“Yes.”

John’s face pinched with concern, “Why?”

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly as a smile stretched across his face. “Why indeed.”

~o~

“I look ridiculous!” John hissed, plucking at what he could only assume was once a burlap sack.

“You look the part,” Sherlock dismissed, adjusting the white stole over his red choir robe.

“Sherlock!” John snapped. “You’re the one that insisted on this. And you’re the one that demanded I bring my gun. Now where, in God’s name, am I supposed to keep it when I’m wearing two bed sheets and a potato bag?”

“Tuck it in your pants for all I care, just have it to hand.” Sherlock stooped to collect a handful of sheet music and turned on his heel, heading for the nave of the church.

“In my pants?! Sherlock!” John clenched his jaw and glared at Sherlock’s retreating back for a moment. Finally, he closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, tucked his browning into the waistband of his trousers, flicked the sheet back into place overtop, and stormed out after him. He pulled up short as a shepherd’s crook snapped across the doorframe, barring his way and nearly smacking him in the gut.

Sherlock’s voice rumbled low and hushed from where he was waiting just inside the sanctuary. “This kidnapping threat is very real. We have the three hours of the rehearsal to find the perpetrator or there is a very real fear that there’ll be no infant in this Nativity.”

John sighed and shook his head, gripping the crook and sliding it from Sherlock’s hands.

“I will have the perfect vantage point from the loft to observe, but I cannot be in two places at once.” Sherlock turned his head to face John. “I highly suspect it is one of the wise men. Watch for my signal. John?”

John shifted his stance, lowering the crook to hold it properly upright as he stared at his shoes. “You’re sure about this, Sherlock?” He raised his eyes to watch Sherlock’s face. “It’s bloody Christmas.”

“John,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a frown. “I’m quite certain having been raised just outside of London, you’d have been exposed repeatedly to this over the course of your childhood. It’s a parish Nativity play; they weren’t going for historical accuracy with the costumes. You’ll be fine.”

John’s nose twitched. His lips pursed. His fingers rolled rhythmically along the shaft of the crook. And he gave Sherlock a murderous stare. “Sherlock,” he growled.

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, John. I’m sure.” John raised an eyebrow and the smugness left Sherlock’s expression. “I am. John, I promise.”

John cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Right. Ok.” He gave a nod. “Right. So… What am I looking for?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparked. “Someone who wants the savior for himself.”

John’s brows knit together. “What?” But Sherlock spun away and stalked toward the choir loft. “Sher…” John huffed out an angry sigh as he realized Sherlock was no longer paying any attention.

“BAHHHHH!”

Startled, John turned toward the altar. “Is that a live sheep?”

“Of course it is, John,” Sherlock’s voice trailed over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs to the loft. “Haven’t you done a Nativity before?”

“Places!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose; it was going to be a long rehearsal.

It was actually challenging to listen to the directions over the voices of the choir working through their music, the bleating of the sheep and donkey, the nervous giggles and shrieks of the children dressed as various characters, and the intermittent crying of a live infant destined to play baby Jesus. Possibly destined to be abducted? All-in-all, it wasn’t actually the worst way John’d spent a Christmas Eve; not that he wanted to remember the ones that were worse. He’d tried to study the Wise Men, but had come up short, literally, when the director had continually moved him behind taller people. At least Sherlock could see everything, the lanky git.

They were all to take a five minute break and then do a run-through, start to finish. It would give everyone time to eat and get ready before the midnight service. John sighed and shot a glance up at the loft. He could nearly see the glee on Sherlock’s face. He was loving this. John shook his head slowly and headed for a pew at the edge of the nave, just to sit for a moment.

“Do you mind if I…?” The small hand waved absently at the last of the pew next to him.

“Uh, no. Not at all.” John slid over to give the young woman more space.

“Sorry. All this stuff,” she grunted as she dropped multiple bags on the seat and floor. “Babies come with so much baggage.” She gave a weak smile and slumped into the pew.

“Is he your first?” John asked kindly, smiling at the baby as it cooed.

The woman nodded. “First and maybe only.” She maneuvered a shawl across her shoulder and shifted the infant beneath it. “Sorry, is this going to bother you?”

John gave her a surprised look. “Bother me? No. Not at all.” The suspicious look on her face had him back pedaling quickly. He held up a hand. “I’m a GP. I fully support it. Why? People still giving bother about it?”

The woman winced. “Shockingly, yes.”

“Absurd,” John muttered. “We’ve all got to eat.”

The woman gave a more honest laugh. “Evelyn, mother to Jesus,” she freed her hand momentarily.

“John, peasant shepherd.” John shook her hand.

“You look somewhat familiar.”

“I have one of those faces,” John shrugged. “What’s the wee one’s name?”

“Ah, Joey.”

“We have a Joseph pretending to be Jesus?” John chuckled.

Evelyn grinned. “Apparently.”

“So, did you… Volunteer him to be Jesus, or how did this happen?”

“Oh,” Evelyn sighed. “He was just baptized and he’s the right age, so they asked if I would. Hard to say no.”

“Late night though,” John furrowed his brow. “Evelyn, I have to ask. No, I… It’s more of a request. This,” he looked at his hands and ducked his head. “This is probably going to sound insane, but I think… I’m worried about your son.”

When he lifted his eyes again, he could see it in her face. She knew something was wrong. She was worried too. “What do you mean?”

“I…” He bit his bottom lip. “If you’ll bear with me, I have a plan.”

~o~

John shifted, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. It didn’t suit him to stand still for so long, and the monotony of the Nativity going on around him was frustrating. Sherlock watched, occasionally making eye contact with John; it was slightly reassuring. Then he saw it, the odd tilt of Sherlock’s head, a large flick of the music, the shift of his weight forward. John’s eyes narrowed and he quickly turned the direction of Sherlock’s distraction.

“John! The lighter! It’s not Frankincense!”

John shoved forward, throwing an elbow and using the crook to clear the way toward the basinet. He could smell the fire as the fuse was lit and he dove, covering the small crib with his torso as a deafening bang and flash of light sent the animals in a panicked stampede and the children into a screaming frenzy.

His ears were ringing and he had to blink away spots, but he could still hear the shrill cry of the infant coming from the bundle of blankets. He scooped a weighty armful out of the basinet and dashed for the main aisle, heading for the rear of the church. He didn’t make it more than two steps. The second bang was sharper, crisper, and most definitely a gun.

“Stop right there.”

John froze in his tracks, clutching the bundle to his chest. For one mad second, he wondered if Sherlock should have been carrying the browning. But no; Sherlock had sworn never to touch the thing again. John wet his lips and turned slowly to face the man with the gun.

“Give me the baby.”

John set his jaw. Sherlock had been right; obviously. One of the wise men. The second king. Not carrying Frankincense, but a light flash-bang and a pistol. And the pistol was pointing straight at John. “Jesus,” John hissed angrily.

“Yes,” the man forced a smile. “Give me the baby Jesus.”

It was quick and subtle, but John’s eyes flicked around the space rapidly. The other people had scattered, taking cover behind pews and lecterns and the altar itself; the animals, pressed against the walls, under the benches, out the doors; the choir was ducked and covered behind their balcony; leaving John and second king alone in the middle of the church. A soft cry came from the blankets and John adjusted his hold, freeing his left hand and rocking slightly. “Shh,” he said gently.

“Now. Give me the baby now.”

John swallowed. His crook was only two feet off to his left. He just needed the smallest amount of time. The corner of his mouth twitched back in the beginning of a smile. “This baby?”

“Yes!”

“You want this baby?” He jostled the bundle and another small cry emitted from the swaddling.

“Yes! Give me that baby!” the king took a step forward.

John’s body went slightly lax, softening as he bent his knees, coiling. “Catch!” He launched the bundle into the air and dove for the crook. The king staggered forward to save the infant from hitting the floor. John brought the crook up, swinging it to connect with the back of the man’s knees. The king tumbled to the ground, the blankets landing on his stomach as the gun skittered across the marble. John drew his own gun, aiming steadily at the king, his knuckles white around the crook in his left hand.

“Is that a baby monitor?” Sherlock’s voice washed over him as a large palm rested on his shoulder.

“Taped to doll? Yes, Sherlock. Yes it is.” John felt his shoulders start to relax.

“Where is the real baby?”

“Safe with his mum, tucked away in the sacristy. Do you have your cuffs?”

Sherlock grinned. “Obviously.”

“I’ll just ring Lestrade, will I?” John returned the smile.

“He would be the least annoying,” Sherlock huffed.

John flicked the muzzle of the gun at the man on the ground. “Roll over onto your stomach.”

Sherlock made quick work of the handcuffs, hauling the man to the first pew and dropping him heavily onto the wood. “Not much of a wise man,” he murmured to John.

John snickered. “Sherlock,” he chuckled. “That was terrible.”

Sherlock hummed out a laugh. “I know.”

 

~o~

 

John settled back in the pew with a sigh. He could feel post-adrenaline crash settling into his frame, and he wondered why Sherlock had insisted on sticking around for the midnight service. Sherlock’s parents bustled into the pew and took up residence on his right as Mycroft managed to perch on his left. John shifted uncomfortably against the pressure of his browning at the small of his back.

“Oh, John, dear. Such a shame about the Nativity being cancelled at the last minute,” Mummy started. Mycroft scoffed, and John found himself agreeing with the sentiment. “Oh, Myc. Behave!” She reached across John and smacked Mycroft’s knee.

“It’s Mycroft, mother, please.” Mycroft pressed a candle into John’s hand. “Hold this. You’ll need it in a moment.”

“Really?” John made a face. “I thought…”

“No. They’ve made alternate arrangements.”

“So quickly?”

“Mmn,” Mycroft gave a nod as the lights in the church dimmed slowly to black. The white fairy lights adorning the tree at the front and the altar candles the only lights in room.

Then a single candle lit, Sherlock’s face glowing from behind the soft light. Slowly, the members of the choir shared the flame until they all had candles, standing at the front of the church. It was done in silence, a peaceful air to the process.

“ _Oh holy night_ ,” Sherlock began in solo. “ _The stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear savior’s birth_.”

John felt his mouth drop open.

“ _Long lay the world, in sin and error pining. ‘Til he appeared and the soul felt it’s worth._ ”

Holy hell; Sherlock could sing.

“ _A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn_.”

The choir had spread down the center aisle of the church, the candles of the parishioners passing light down the pews.

“ _Fall on your knees_.”

John felt the goosebumps rise along his arms, suppressing a small shiver.

“ _Oh hear the angels’ voices._ ”

It was haunting. And beautiful.

“ _Oh night divine. Oh night when Christ was born_.”

The choir overlaid in harmony with Sherlock’s voice and John found himself holding his breath.

“ _Oh night divine. Oh night divine._ ”

“He was a bit flat with the second stanza,” Mycroft muttered without malice.

John glanced up at him to find a soft expression on his face. “I thought you were tone deaf.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Quite.”


	10. About Those Birds and Bees...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From earlgreytea68:  
> What if storks literally brought people babies? That was how it was done. You met the love of your life, you moved in together, you requested a baby from a stork, and one arrived, and it was a combination of your and your partner’s genetic makeup, but you didn’t have to do anything to get it other than ask.  
> (You could also do a version of this where you have to pay the storks. And the storks then could be, like, vicious tyrants. Wait, maybe I’m getting off-track.)  
> So say you get a stork who’s kind of interfering, right? Say you get a stork who sees your OTP of choice and is like, “Man, those people should be together.” And then the stork is like, “…Wait, you know what I am? I’m a stork. And by the weird rules of this story, that means I can just smush people’s DNA together and make them babies. Ha! I will totally make them a baby.”  
> Then the stork delivers a baby to the doorstep of one of your OTP, and that one’s like, “What the heck is this? I didn’t order a baby,” and the stork’s like, “Yup, that’s definitely your baby, yours and the other half of the OTP,” and the OTP (both of them) is like, “…How did this happen? Did you ask for a baby? What are we supposed to do with this baby?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... Because it IS still Wednesday, this is totally unbeta'd (because I'd just end up giving Reichy emotional whiplash and that's not fair). So. Slight deviation from Angst Wednesday! Have some... magical realism fluffy parentlock :)
> 
> Tumblr prompt: http://earlgreytea68.tumblr.com/post/109337336721/new-magical-realism-ish-au-idea

“Sherlock?”

John’s footsteps fell angrily on the steps. Perhaps laboring under the shopping again. But then why cross?

“Sherlock!” John snapped once he’d reached the sitting room.

“Busy,” Sherlock hummed from his perch over the microscope.

“Sherlock, what in the bloody hell is this?!”

Sherlock huffed, straightened, and swiveled his neck. He spared a quick glance and rolled his eyes. “Honestly, John, I realize it’s been quite some time since you were once that small, though maybe not that long in your case, given your stature, but as a medical professional, I would hope you’d at least be able to recognize a baby.”

John’s jaw went tight for a moment as he asked for strength. “I know it’s a baby, Sherlock. I want to know why.”

“John,” Sherlock turned back to the microscope. “Everyone knows how the storks work. Please tell me you haven’t been struck on the head hard enough to be confused about that.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and turned his entire body toward the sitting room, toward John. The instant he saw John, he had to stifle the urge to laugh. No one, in the history of the world had ever looked so cross while holding an infant. He was actually standing at attention, his eyes sparking with anger, holding a very small, very young looking, very new infant, wrapped in fresh stork swaddling.

Five, no six, micro expressions twisted the corners of John’s mouth before he pursed his lips and gave a small, sharp nod. “Sherlock,” he said lowly. “I know it’s a baby. I know where babies come from. What I want to know is why there is a baby, why this baby here, was sitting on our door step,” John leaned forward, his shoulders twitching. “With a nametag that reads ‘Baby Watson-Holmes.’”

Sherlock’s brow twitched and he tilted his head, blinking at the baby. “Interesting.”

“Int-Interesting?” John barked.

“Shh, John. There’s no need to yell; you’ll wake the baby.” Sherlock popped off of the stool with a fluid motion.

John grit his teeth. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Sherlock leaned in to get a better look at the child’s face.

“Tell me you didn’t submit a petition for a child.” John glared.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed.

John raised a single brow. “Sherlock. I didn’t ask for the storks. So please, explain to me how this child came about. Please.”

Sherlock recognized the dangerously low tone in John’s voice. Calm, steady, and completely enraged. “I have no idea,” he said honestly.

John sighed in frustration, exasperation, concern and helplessness all rolled into one. “What, what do we even do with him?”

“Do with him?” Sherlock crooked a finger in the swaddling blankets and drew them down ever so slightly. “Ah, yes. Him. I don’t know. Return him?”

“Sherlock,” John growled. “You can’t just return a baby.”

“Can’t you? I don’t see why not.”

John’s eyes widened. “There isn’t some magical returns depot for babies, Sherlock. This is a real baby.”

“I’m aware.”

“This is… our baby,” John winced and started to pace the room, finally giving up and settling on the sofa. He shifted the infant into the crook of his right arm and pressed his free hand to his forehead. “Sherlock…” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, heavy sigh. The baby shifted in the blankets, yawning, rousing, and making a soft squeaking noise. John’s brow furrowed deeply as he ran his hand roughly over his mouth, watching the baby’s eyes blink open. Blue. Deep, nearly navy blue. “Sherlock, we can’t have a baby,” John whispered.

“Apparently we do.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock huffed, stepped onto and over the table, and dropped onto the couch beside John. John managed to shift his arms in a way that the baby was completely undisturbed by the jostling. “Hm… He has your eyes.”

An oddly strangled laugh burst out of John. “All babies have blue eyes when they’re born.” Sherlock reached across and tugged the small hat off. This time, John tilted his chin up with a tight sigh. “Of course he’d have your curls.”

“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed in agreement, stroking a finger down the baby’s nose. “Your nose.”

“God help us if he has your brain,” John murmured.

Sherlock snorted, “God’ll be his only help if he doesn’t.”

“We don’t have anything. We need nappies and bottles and a cot and clothes and the flat, Sherlock. This isn’t exactly baby friendly. And what about cases, and if I have work, and there’s sleeping schedules, and crèche and..”

“John,” Sherlock rested one palm between John’s shoulder blades as the baby gripped the index finger of his other hand. “It will be fine.”

John watched the baby’s small fingers open and close around Sherlock’s. “He needs a name.”

 

~o~

 

John continued to hum softly as he fed the baby, shifting easily to keep a slow and gentle rocking motion as the bottle disappeared. When it was gone, he smiled, refilled the kettle, turned it on, flicked a towel up to protect his shoulder, and continued to hum as he shifted the wee lad up onto his shoulder to wind him. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, tea, thanks,” Sherlock called from his bedroom.

“How did you even know what I was going to ask?” John muttered. Between gentle pats on the back, John pulled down the mugs and tea bags, sugar and milk, and set about making the tea. The baby let out a loud burp. John shifted him back to the crook of his arm with a wry smile. “Well, excuse you. You’re only allowed such manners until you can laydown concrete memory. Then we’ll have none of that in this house.”

“Have you finally managed to impose manners on my brother then?”

“Jesus!” John jumped as he glanced over his shoulder, tucking the infant close to his chest. “Fuck’s sake, Mycroft. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft straightened his shoulders, pulling himself up taller. “You’ve another two decades before that’s a real concern. I’ll take my tea with milk, if you don’t mind.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled as he swept out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. He paused, collected the two mugs and glanced at John. “Will I just give him yours?”

John sighed and nodded. “I’ll be in momentarily.”

Sherlock tilted his head minutely. “Alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Fine.” John pulled down another mug as Mycroft followed Sherlock into the sitting room.

“Taxing Mrs. Hudson’s patience again, brother dear?”

Sherlock snorted. “She’s loving it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the mess. “Incidentally, how is parenthood suiting you?”

“Suits him right down to his socks,” John said with a grin, as he passed to sit on the sofa.

Mycroft cocked a brow at Sherlock’s bare feet. John didn’t miss it, but he frankly didn’t care. “We’ve traced the problem back to the Sunderland Flock. Apparently, one of the Storks has taken it upon himself to create pre-fab family units. There are regulations in place that should have prevented it, but we’d always suspected such mishaps were possible. Actions have been taken.”

“Hamish is not a mishap,” Sherlock hissed.

“Of course not,” Mycroft said insincerely.

“No,” John said sweetly. “Hamish is a tough wee man. And he has a brilliant father, and an overbearing and stealthy government destroying uncle who loves him.”

The baby cooed; Mycroft frowned. “I see.”

John’s smile morphed into something dangerous. “He’s healthy, and perfect, Mycroft. We may not have submitted the paperwork for him, but he’s here now. You’d better get used to it.” John turned his face back to Hamish. “That’s right, he will. Or daddy is going to shoot your uncle Mycroft, and won’t that be a problem.”

The baby cooed again, Sherlock snickered, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, “You two are incorrigible.” His mobile vibrated and Mycroft was forced to fish it out of his breast pocket. He glanced at the screen and frowned, standing quickly as he connected the call. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end was recognizable purely for the volume of the shouting. “MYCROFT HOLMES! What in the bloody fuck have you done?!”

John tried to smother his chuckle behind a cough. Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his grin. Mycroft turned his back to the room and tried to calm the conversation, “Gregory, is something wrong?”

“YES! Something is clearly bloody wrong! Why is there a baby here?!”

John lost the battle to hide his laughter and turned his face into his own shoulder. Sherlock’s grin only grew wider. Mycroft looked pale. “I’m sorry?”

Lestrade’s voice dropped into a low growl. “Mycroft, there is a baby. Here. With your name on it.”

“Ah,” Mycroft looked momentarily lost for words. “I will… I will be right over.”

“Not so funny now, is it?” John murmured as Mycroft ended his call.

The sound Mycroft made was neither an affirmative nor negative. Sherlock’s smile was bordering on disturbed. “Not to worry, Mycroft. You’ll be mother.”

The laughter exploded out of John. Sherlock chuckled, quite pleased with himself. Mycroft frowned. “How unsatisfactory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter - Chapter 11: **Birds of a Feather** is a continuation of this short :)


	11. Birds of a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From earlgreytea68:  
> What if storks literally brought people babies? That was how it was done. You met the love of your life, you moved in together, you requested a baby from a stork, and one arrived, and it was a combination of your and your partner’s genetic makeup, but you didn’t have to do anything to get it other than ask.  
> (You could also do a version of this where you have to pay the storks. And the storks then could be, like, vicious tyrants. Wait, maybe I’m getting off-track.)  
> So say you get a stork who’s kind of interfering, right? Say you get a stork who sees your OTP of choice and is like, “Man, those people should be together.” And then the stork is like, “…Wait, you know what I am? I’m a stork. And by the weird rules of this story, that means I can just smush people’s DNA together and make them babies. Ha! I will totally make them a baby.”  
> Then the stork delivers a baby to the doorstep of one of your OTP, and that one’s like, “What the heck is this? I didn’t order a baby,” and the stork’s like, “Yup, that’s definitely your baby, yours and the other half of the OTP,” and the OTP (both of them) is like, “…How did this happen? Did you ask for a baby? What are we supposed to do with this baby?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... Because I needed some fluffy feels. And I needed a distraction from what I've been working on... For reasons. This is totally unbeta'd (because I'd just end up giving Reichy emotional whiplash and that's not fair). And I was harassing EGT for this, but then... This just happened... Have some bonus extra magical realism fluffy parentlock :)
> 
> Tumblr prompt: http://earlgreytea68.tumblr.com/post/109337336721/new-magical-realism-ish-au-idea

John glanced at the screen of his mobile as it threatened to buzz right off the table, ringing for the third time in two minutes. He frowned, glanced at Sherlock, shifted the way he was holding Hamish, and answered the call. “Hello?”

There was a grumble on the other end before the words became clearly directed down the line. “John.”

“Greg?”

“Case?” Sherlock perked up from his lounging position in his chair. John shook his head. Sherlock huffed and slouched back down.

There was a muffled whimper and a low murmur and he was back. “John, I hate… I really hate to do this, but could you… Are you free?”

John pursed his lips, “I can be. Is everything alright?”

“No.” There was a heavy sigh. “I’ve a baby here, Mycroft is on his way, and I’m desperately worried I’m going to punch him.”

John snorted. “And I’m supposed to keep you from doing that?” Sherlock raised a brow at John’s amusement, mouthing a rude comment. John shook his head again.

“No,” Greg said flatly. “I don’t think there’s anything that could keep me from doing that. I just don’t want to be holding a baby when I do.”

John clamped his teeth around his lower lip, torn between laughing and being slightly horrified. “So, I should leave my two-week old son at home, alone, with Sherlock, in order to come over to yours and help you damage Mycroft?”

“Please. John.”

John actually grinned. “You sure you don’t want Sherlock instead?” The series of cuss words that followed finally drew a laugh from John. “Fine, Greg. It’s fine. I’ll catch a cab now. But Mycroft has about a five minute head start and you know his drivers.”

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Greg,” John laughed again. “It’s fine.” He disconnected the line and brought Hamish to Sherlock. “He needs to go down for his nap in about twenty minutes.”

Sherlock smiled at the baby and hummed something of a response.

“Sherlock.”

He waved John away. “Yes, yes. Nap in twenty minutes. Sleep for two point seven three hours. Clean nappy. Bath. Bottle. Wind. Nap again. I am perfectly capable of keeping a schedule.”

John shrugged into his jacket and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I never said you weren’t. Just implied that you don’t.”

Sherlock grinned at John’s back as he headed out the door.

~o~

“I don’t give a goddammed what you did!”

“Gregory…”

“You said it was FIXED!”

John cleared his throat and raised his brows. “So… Going well, is it?”

Anthea paused her rapid typing to glance up. The corner of her mouth twitched in what threatened to be a smile. “Of course.”

“DO NOT LIE TO ME!”

He wrinkled his nose. “Should I have brought a gun?”

She cocked a single brow at him, her expression wry.

“Ah, right. Course not,” John murmured, putting his hand on the doorknob. “That’s why you’re here.” He wet his lips nervously. “Wish me luck.”

“MYCROFT!”

Anthea was back to typing. “Good luck,” she said dismissively.

John pushed into the flat and cautiously made his way to the sitting room, pausing on instinct before announcing his presence. Greg’s back was to the entryway, still in his suit jacket, standing firmly braced in the middle of the room, and it looked like his arms were crossed over his chest as he stood toe to toe with Mycroft. And in spite of not being able to see Greg’s face, John had full view of the expression on Mycroft’s very unhappy mug.

“That’s ANOTHER THING!” Greg roared. There was a small wail and Greg sighed heavily. The twitch and frown from Mycroft was both unexpected and strangely satisfying.

John coughed discretely and gave Greg a pleased look as he turned, his arms not actually crossed, but holding a rather cross looking infant. John almost choked at the mirrored expression on Mycroft’s face. “Hello,” he said carefully, his arms bouncing nervously by his sides.

“Oh what now?” Mycroft snarled.

“John, thank God,” Greg sighed as John crossed the room. “Listen, can you? … Just for a minute? … I need to…”

John nodded slowly, “Yeah, yeah sure.” He held his arms out and accepted the small bundle. He smothered a smile at the baby’s moue of displeasure, but the intermittent fussing seemed to stop as wide brown eyes studied John carefully. John flashed Greg a wide smile. “She’s beautiful, Greg.”

“I know,” Greg ran his palm roughly down from his forehead to cover a grimace. “God help me, I know that, John.” He squinted down at the infant’s pout, running a soft finger along her cheek. He forced a smile that looked more like a wince when he managed to look back up at John. “And I need to say a few things that aren’t meant for her ears, yeah?”

John gave him a knowing look. “Whatever you need, mate.”

“Gregory. As I said before-” Mycroft didn’t get the opportunity to finish the sentence as Greg twisted round and punched him soundly in the jaw. John couldn’t be sure who made the startled noise. It could easily have been any of the three men, but he belatedly thought it best to cover the baby’s eyes. Just in case.

Mycroft backpedaled and dropped onto the couch with a thump and Greg followed, planting one hand on the back of the sofa, the other on his own hip and leaned in until his nose nearly bumped off of Mycroft’s. “What were the exact words, Mycroft?” he growled.

His head tilted and he glared back. “They were informed that should they not see to the problem themselves, the Sunderland Flock would receive my full and undivided attention,” Mycroft hissed.

“Said that, that exactly, did you?” Greg’s smile was closer to a snarl.

Mycroft raised a brow. “The threat was implied, Gregory.”

“And that giant brain of yours didn’t, at any point, think that perhaps they would make sure you couldn’t give it your undivided attention?”

“I,” Mycroft began to object.

“You didn’t think,” Greg said flatly, straightening up and digging his fingers into his hair.

Mycroft adjusted his jacket, resuming his achingly upright posture. “The Flock violated at least five treaties when they made the mistake of delivering Hamish.”

“Oi!” John snapped. “You refer to my son, your nephew as a mistake one more time and I won’t pull my punch like Greg did.” The little girl gave a squawk of her own, and John smirked, giving her a small nod of approval. “Exactly. Just you wait until you meet your cousin.”

Mycroft’s entire face twitched before it smoothed over. “I’m simply pointing out that this is the second violation of existing regulations.”

“That we know of,” Greg grumbled.

He tilted his head in assent. “We are not without means of restitution.”

Greg caught his tongue between his teeth and glowered at Mycroft as he stood, tugging his waistcoat into place. “I swear to God, Mycroft, if I come home to find triplets…”

Mycroft made a tisking sound as he cocked his head. “Gregory.”

“You fix this problem,” he set his jaw. “Fix it.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll…” he rubbed at his jaw. “I’ll sort something… For work… For the moment…” His face scrunched as he thought about the files stacking up on his desk, the two cases going cold, the murder last week.

Mycroft raised a brow, encroaching in Greg’s personal space. “I’m certain that won’t be necessary.”

“I’m not leaving our daughter with some random stranger when she’s only two days old,” he hissed through his teeth, refusing to move to accommodate Mycroft.

Somehow, Mycroft’s brow inched higher. “Our daughter.”

“You’re a stupid, sodding bastard,” Greg grumbled. Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Arrogant, pretentious, egotistical arse,” he kept going.

“Redundant.”

“Pompous,” he chewed on his lower lip.

“Loquacious,” Mycroft smiled condescendingly.

“I’m seriously, bloody well pissed off at you.”

“Quite,” Mycroft purred.

When Greg grabbed a fist full of Mycroft’s waistcoat, John blinked, turned his back, and tried to inch out of the room. The infant in his arms let out a squeal, and no matter what he tried, John couldn’t shush her to let her parents have a moment. Greg cleared his throat, “Sorry.”

Before John could turn back, Mycroft loomed over his shoulder, “That is quite enough now, my dear.”

Shockingly, she quieted and stared at him until he nodded and headed for the door. Greg sighed. “Fix it.”

“It has, inadvertently, garnered my full and undivided attention. I will ring you once it’s been resolved.” The door closed quietly in Mycroft’s wake.

John raised his brows and Greg tried and failed to frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” John snickered. Laughing harder at the slight blush that colored Greg’s cheeks.

Greg held out for a moment longer, before chuckling along with him. Without hesitating, Greg held out his arms for his child and she curled happily into the crook of his arm. “Shit, John,” he whispered. “I’m in so much trouble.”

The half smile on John’s face faded sharply. “Oh no,” he groaned.

“What?”

“I just realized…” A look of horror passed over his face. “They’ll be two at the same time…”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Oh God. Teens.”

“Tweens,” John grimaced.

“Uni?”

They stared at each other. Then burst out laughing again. “God help us.”


	12. On Flimflam, Hijinks, and Polished Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another prompt from anotherwellkeptsecret. And then I made it my own prompt:
> 
> Anotherwellkeptsecret: I want a prank war between Sherlock and John like I need it yesterday.
> 
> Ewebie: I want John cling-filming the toilet bowl… And Sherlock retaliating by hiding Daz gel bubbles in John’s shoes so they explode when he crams his feet into them.
> 
> I want it to slowly escalate. I want Mrs. H to demand them stop. I want Lestrade to kick them out of a crime scene because they keep trying to one up each other. I want Molly to ban Sherlock from Bart’s when he rigs a cadaver to “pop” when John gets near it. I want a furious Mycroft, covered with honey and feathers when he accidentally sets off one of John’s booby-traps while he breaks into Baker St.
> 
> I want Mrs. H to settle it. I want her to drug their tea and leave them tied up in a compromised situation in the middle of the flat and leave them to sort it out on their own…
> 
> …
> 
> … I’ll be back in a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/115305966248/anotherwellkeptsecret-i-want-a-prank-war
> 
> (what is wrong with me? I'm in nanomo! I'm supposed to be working on something else!)
> 
> PS: Totally unbetaed.

“John. John!” Sherlock yelled from his reclined position on the sofa. “John!”

“What?” John stuck his head around the corner from the kitchen. “What, Sherlock? I’m right here.”

“John, I need you to send a text to Lestrade.”

John frowned. “Right now? I’m in the middle of the washing up.”

“John,” Sherlock scoffed, injecting the single syllable with enough distain that John sighed heavily, dried his hands and tugged his mobile from his back pocket.

He pulled up a text to Greg and gave Sherlock an expectant look. “Wait. No.” He held up a finger. “You literally have your mobile in your hands. Why don’t you send the text?”

“It’s a web address, John. Clearly, I need to read it from my browser.” Sherlock raised a brow.

John thought to argue. You were supposed to be able to copy and paste on smart phones. Supposed to, he supposed. But sure, he’d never managed such an action. “Fine. Go on.”

“Type in this address.”

“Alright.”

“Ready.”

“Yes. I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.”

“W-w-w dot youtube dot com.”

John caught his tongue between his teeth as he focused on punching in the letters. “Yeah?”

“Backslash watch.”

“The whole word ‘watch’?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Ok.”

“Question mark, v, equal sign.”

“Right.”

“This is where it gets tricky.”

“I can use a keyboard, Sherlock.”

“D, capital Q, w, four, w, nine, capital W, g, capital X, c, capital Q.”

John made a low humming sound as he finished. “Right, ok.” He read the address back to Sherlock. “Happy?”

“Very.” Sherlock flashed him a smile. “You could throw in a sentence about it being relevant to the case he sent me this morning.”

“Right. ‘Here, Greg,’” John absently muttered as he typed. “’For the case you sent Sherlock.’” He hit send. “Wait, Sherlock, what case? You didn’t mention a case.”

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. “Oh. It was hardly a two.”

John nearly jumped as his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Goddammit, John! I was in the middle of a crime scene!”

John’s eyes went wide. “Sorry?”

“I had the volume up and everything!”

“Greg… What? What’s wrong?”

“You are!”

John shot a confused look toward Sherlock, only to see him doubled up in laughter, curled up on the couch, trying to muffle his snickers in the back of his arm. John’s face fell flat. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Greg, whatever that was, I’m sorry. I have to go murder Sherlock.” It only made his flatmate laugh harder.

“Sherlock…” Greg sighed heavily. “John, you know what day it is, yeah?”

“Uh… Wednesday?”

“It’s April, mate. First day of April.”

John groaned.

“Don’t kill him. The case just got more interesting.”

John’s mouth twitched as he glared at Sherlock. “No promises.” He disconnected the call and tossed the mobile into his chair before crossing his arms over his chest. “What did I just send him?”

Sherlock managed to sit up, wiping a tear from his eye. “You should look it up.”

“No thanks,” he growled.

“Oh, John. Lighten up. It’s April Fools!”

“How is it you remember a stupid day like this, but cannot remember your own birthday? This is not something you want to engage me with…” John gave a good long scowl and turned back into the kitchen. “Sod it. I’m making tea.”

Sherlock continued to smirk as the kettle slammed down, as John opened and closed cupboards, as he set the mugs down with force that risked their integrity. By the time he’d made his tea and added the milk, John was far more calm. He strode back into the sitting room, blowing over the surface of his mug. “Don’t I get one?” Sherlock asked innocently.

“Get off yer arse and collect it from the kitchen yourself.”

Sherlock cocked a brow at John.

“I’m cross,” the ‘with you’ was implied. “The walk won’t kill you.” John settled into his chair and continued to blow on the tea, hoping not to scald himself this time.

With a huff, Sherlock pushed himself off the couch, stepped on and over the table, and stomped into the kitchen. His mug was actually sitting on the counter, already brewed, still steaming. “Did you put sugar in this yet?”

“It’s in the cupboard where it always is,” John grumbled.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the back of John’s head. The irritated expression faded quickly into a smirk and he retrieved the milk from the fridge. “Wait! John!” He dashed into the sitting room, shaking the milk carton. “Don’t drink that! What milk did you use?”

John nearly choked as he swallowed the sip of tea in his mouth. “I used the milk I bought yesterday. The milk I literally had to open to put in my tea.”

Sherlock winced. “Did you use the one on the shelf or the one on the door?”

“Shelf.” John took another sip.

“John, that’s not milk.” Sherlock set his mouth in a thin line and gazed at the carton in his hand. “I’ve been trying to culture bacteria in bull semen and milk is one of the only media that seems amenable to growth. Your milk was on the door.”

A spray of tea shot out of John’s mouth as he coughed. He stared, open-mouthed, horrified at the mug of tea in his hand, then up at Sherlock. “Why?”

Sherlock snorted. He tried to wipe the mirth from his face, failed, and burst out laughing again. “Your face! Oh God, the look on your face!”

John scowled. “Oh fuck off.”

“John, you’re too trusting. This is just too easy.”

“I thought we agreed that you’d never poison my food again,” John snapped, setting the tea on the side table.

Sherlock chuckled. “We did. And I didn’t. I just said I did.”

“Semantics,” he growled.

Sherlock shook his head, still snickering, and returned to the kitchen. John pursed his lips and glared at a spot on the wall, he continued to silently fume as the soft tink of Sherlock stirring his sugar into his tea drifted into the room, and he sniffed loudly and kept staring as Sherlock flopped into his chair with his own tea. “Oh, John. Don’t pout.”

He blinked slowly and moved his attention to Sherlock, trying to burn a hole in the man’s head with sheer glowering.

“It’s April Fools, John.” Sherlock gave him a half smile and insolent tilt of the head before taking a sip of his tea.

John’s ire disappeared as the expression on Sherlock’s face changed from cheeky to disgusted. He made a slight gagging sound. He blinked away tears as he tamped down the nausea. John raised a brow. “Something wrong with your tea, Sherlock?” Sherlock’s response was a dark glare. John shrugged. “Huh? I thought you’d know the difference between salt and sugar. My mistake.” He blinked innocently and smiled.

Sherlock winced. “That’s disgusting, John.”

“It’s April Fools, Sherlock.”

~o~

It took some convincing for Sherlock to take the case. In fact, it took four phone calls, eight text messages, and seventeen different pictures of the scene before he agreed it might be worth his time. More than anything, he seemed skeptical that it wasn’t some elaborate prank that Lestrade was putting together to get even with him for the earlier text. But eventually, he conceded that Lestrade wasn’t that clever and convinced John that it was a good way to spend the rest of the day. It was, after all, still early.

John went to shower, went to get dressed, went to collect his gun, and was in the process of tugging his jumper over his head when he heard the alarmed yelp. He huffed out a laugh and sat on the edge of his bed giggling as Sherlock stormed up the stairs. John continued to laugh as his door slammed open and Sherlock stood in the frame glaring. John swallowed down the last of the giggles and smiled at Sherlock. “Can I help you?”

“That was foul,” Sherlock snapped, clutching the towel around his waist. So he’d found the clingfilm on the toilet bowl. Another bout of giggles burst out of John and he doubled over with it. “You are cleaning that up!”

“I’ve cleaned worse.” He couldn’t help the laughter. Sherlock just looked so scandalized.

Sherlock huffed, maybe snarled, and slammed the door in his wake, the sound of John’s amusement following him back down the stairs. Well then. Two can play this game.

John waited for Sherlock to retreat to his room before risking assessing the damage to the loo. It wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated, and was nearly done cleaning when Sherlock stormed out of his room with a terse, “Come along, John.”

“Nearly done,” John called back.

“I don’t have all day, John!”

With a sigh, John straightened, tossed the last of the paper towels into the rubbish and washed his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” He perched on one of the kitchen chairs to pull on his socks and headed for the door.

Sherlock was waiting at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed. John raised a brow. “Any time now, John.”

John rolled his eyes, took his jacket from the peg and simultaneously stuck his arms into the sleeves as he crammed his feet into his shoes. His left arm in the jacket and right shoe on, he got stuck with his right arm half way in and an uncomfortable popping sensation and gooey ooze over his left toes. He closed his eyes and groaned. “Sherlock.”

“Yes?” he drawled.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Perhaps.”

John took a deep breath, stepped out of the offending shoe, and glanced down at the green, viscous fluid coating his sock. “Sherlock, what is that?” Sherlock grinned but didn’t answer. John stooped, collected the shoe and sniffed. “Did you… Is that a Daz liquitab?! SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock smirked. “You were cleaning; I decided to help.”

“OH MY GOD!” John shouted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get…” He clenched his jaw.

“Boys?” The light call preceded the footfalls on the stairs. “Yoo hoo!”

John hunched his shoulders as he reigned in his temper again. He cleared his throat and plastered a weak smile on his face. “Mrs. Hudson.”

She patted Sherlock’s arm as she gave John a knowing look. “All this shouting and door slamming this morning. Having a domestic again?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not at all.”

John bit down on his lower lip hard, shooting daggers at Sherlock. “You might as well go on ahead. It’s going to take me a moment to wash out my shoe.”

Mrs. Hudson made a tisking sound. “You two. Have you been fooling each other all morning? No wonder you’re both cross. Enough now.”

“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed. “I’ll text you the address, John.”

John sighed. “Whatever you want.”

“That’s it?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “You should both apologize.”

“It’s April Fools,” Sherlock said with a grin and a wink as he spun, heading down the stairs and out the door.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “You behave now.”

John sighed and gave a small nod. “Any tips on getting detergent out of shoes?”

~o~

John was another thirty minutes getting to the crime scene, but at least Greg looked happy to see him. “Alright?”

Lestrade sighed and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’ll survive. You?”

John shrugged. “Battles and wars, mate.”

“I’m going to pretend I have no idea what that means, and even more that I don’t care.”

John grinned. “What’ve you got?” He listened intently as Greg gave him a rundown of the problem. “And is he behaving himself?”

Lestrade’s face pulled into a grimace. “Doesn’t he always?”

John bobbed his head in understanding. “You mind if I?”

“Be my guest,” Lestrade handed him a pair of gloves.

He made his way to the small clearing where Sherlock was hunched over a corpse. He didn’t miss the flicker of a smirk that flashed across Sherlock’s mouth at the sight of his boots. “Yes, I see you’re so very pleased that I had to leave my shoes out to dry,” he said wryly.

Sherlock shifted, squinting up at John. “Pleased? John, this man has been murdered; show a modicum of respect.”

John’s chin tilted up as he grunted in annoyance. “Right. Of course.” He dropped into a squat across from Sherlock and eyed the body. “Anything so far?”

Sherlock’s face twitched. “What does this smell like to you?”

He leaned forward and sniffed lightly at the extended fingers. John should have known. Sherlock never wore latex gloves. He never doubted his own sense of smell. And he certainly didn’t defer to John when in doubt while at a crime scene. “Oh, for the love, Sherlock!” He flinched backwards and then stood briskly. “Fuck’s sake!”

Sherlock grinned. “Anderson said he couldn’t be sure it was human faeces, but I assured him it was.”

John shook his head slowly and turned away with his arms crossed. “You are unbelievable.” He was still shaking his head as he started to pace away from the crowd and toward the tree line. “Unbelievable.” Sherlock ignored him. Turning his attention back to the problem at hand. A few minutes later, John was at Lestrade’s side, making small talk as Sherlock approached. “You figure it out then?”

“Nearly,” he muttered. “Lestrade, I’ll need the samples sent to Bart’s. If you’d be so kind as to have the body sent there as well, I should have answer for you in an hour.”

Lestrade sighed. “Right. Sure. Chain of evidence. No bother.”

Sherlock scoffed at him. “You did invite me here. Don’t pretend you’re concerned.”

“Fine,” Lestrade grumbled, then his brow scrunched. “Sherlock, what’s that on your arm?”

“What?” He followed Lestrade’s line of sight to find a large, black, creeping spider by his elbow. The sound of surprise that convulsed out of his throat was both high-pitched and halted. But it wasn’t a shriek. Sherlock didn’t shriek. He did flail, trying to shake the spider loose.

Lestrade hunched forward with a loud guffaw as John chortled into the back of his hand. “Stop,” John chuckled. “Sherlock, hold still.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and scooped the spider off, cupping it in his hand and turning away to release it.

Sherlock’s incensed glare met him as he turned back. “You did that on purpose.”

“Of course I did.” John smiled politely. “You stuck a shit covered finger in my face.”

“You cling-filmed the toilet bowl!”

“You put a daz bubble in my shoe,” John grumbled back.

“And you switched the sugar for salt!”

“You had me rick-roll Greg,” John said lowly.

“ENOUGH!” Lestrade bellowed. “Enough. The both of you.” He scrubbed at his face angrily. “I can’t have the pair of you bickering like school boys in the middle of my crime scene. So just cut it. Please and thank you.”

John shook his head purposelessly. “Yeah, alright.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade demanded.

“We were leaving anyway.”

John watched Sherlock stomp off towards the road and sighed. “Sorry,” he muttered and chased after the infuriating man.

~o~

“You know, you could have fucking waited for me,” John announced as he stormed into the morgue. “If you bloody well want to pout, fine. But don’t leave me out in the middle of sodding nowh-” he pulled up short as he saw Molly’s startled expression. “Oh, Molly. Sorry. I’m… Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Um. No, no. I was…” She made a gesture that looked more like an entire body shrug.

John heaved a sigh. “Don’t go. This is your place of work. I’m sorry for shouting.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all very sorry,” Sherlock interrupted. John frowned in his general direction. “But this is important. John. Molly has just informed me that this is the second body to turn up with the exact same patterns of injury. And I thought it might behoove us to look at the first. Wouldn’t you agree?”

John glanced at Molly, it was a sharp, militant turn of the head. “Oh?”

“Y-yes,” Molly stammered. “The first one actually came in about four days ago. I’ve the report over here, if you’d like…”

“Or you could just look,” Sherlock cut her off.

“But,” Molly cut in, as John glanced between the file in Molly’s hand and the body on the slab in front of Sherlock.

“First hand experience supersedes a written report.” Sherlock waved a hand at Molly. “I’m not doubting the thoroughness of your work, Dr. Hooper.” John huffed out a breath through his nose and made his way to the table. “But on the off chance that something has been missed,” Sherlock continued, as John clenched his hands at the small of his back and leaned forward over the table. “Or having seen the second body, something becomes apparent in the first.”

“I… No, I understand, Sherlock,” Molly insisted.

John furrowed his brow as he gave the thoracic cavity a quick run-through. The organs had been blocked and sampled. But the body didn’t look four days dead.

“I don’t have a problem if you want to have a look,” Molly continued. “It’s just that’s not…”

John turned to look at Molly. Sonuvabitch, he thought, drawing himself back from the table. He should have seen it coming. He always, always let Sherlock draw him in and… The popping sound had John flinching as cold viscera sprayed across the side of his face, his neck, and what he could only assume was his shirt and jacket. Oh thank God he’d had his mouth closed. John’s face pulled into a tight wince. “Please, please tell me that I don’t have actual human intestines on my face.”

He could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice. “Of course not. That would be disgusting. It’s myocardial tissue.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Molly barked.

John accepted the damp towel that was pressed into his hands and carefully cleaned the area around his eyes first, then his mouth. He cleared his throat, a dark smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Molly, I might go take a quick shower in the change room, if that’s alright. Are there still scrubs in there?”

“Yes, John. Go ahead.” Molly kept glaring at Sherlock.

John trudged out of morgue and made his way to the change rooms. He took his second shower of the day and before assessing the damage to his clothes. His trousers looked ok. His jumper was remarkably clean thanks to his jacket having been zipped up; his shirt and jacket, on the other hand… With a sigh and grumble, he sourced a biohazard bag and crammed the two items into the plastic. Then he dressed in his trousers, scrub top, and jumper. By the time he made his way back into the morgue, Molly had lectured her way into a healthy red flush and Sherlock was looking properly chastised.

“Now say you’re sorry.” Molly crossed her arms and glared at Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John, I’m sorry for discharging a cadaveric heart in your proximity.”

“And?” Molly insisted. John tried not to find it amusing to see Sherlock cowed by all five feet of exceedingly angry pathologist.

“And I will pay for your things to be cleaned,” he said grudgingly.

“And you’re banned from Bart’s for the week,” Molly said fiercely.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“You heard me.” She stared him down, daring him to argue. “Now out.”

Sherlock stormed out of the morgue. John sighed and shook his head. “Bloody April Fools.” He forced another smile for Molly. “Sorry, Molly. I should… Before he gets into more trouble.”

“See you next week, John.”

The cab ride back to Baker Street was subdued as Sherlock resolutely refused to speak to John, and John was quite content to watch the buildings blow past. When the taxi pulled up to the curb, John fished his wallet out and paid out of habit as Sherlock bolted for the door. John was only just out of the cab as he heard Sherlock’s low rumble of discontent. “Mycroft. Perfect.”

“What?” John jogged to catch up.

Sherlock gestured at the door. “Mycroft. He’s here. What a joke.”

John raised both his brows. “Sherlock… Uh…”

“What?”

John’s tongue rested against his lower lip for a moment as he tried to decide whether he was amused or concerned. “Maybe… Maybe be careful with the door at the top of the stairs? I’d bet that Mycroft has found it, but go in through the kitchen, yeah?”

A small crease appeared between Sherlock’s brows. “What did you do?” John tried to hide the smile. He tried and failed. Sherlock studied his face for a moment and bounded up the stairs. He paused on the landing, bits of down and feathers drifting from the sitting room, golden outlines of shoeprints just inside the doorframe. He strode in through the kitchen, stripping his coat and draping it over one of the chairs before turning into the sitting room. “Mycroft,” he greeted his brother’s back.

Mycroft turned, an intense scowl on his face. “Sherlock.” John was the one to start it when he snorted. But Sherlock burst out laughing first. And in a moment, the two of them were doubled over, giggling like children. Mycroft huffed once, rolled his eyes, and glared. “If you’re quite finished.”

How he managed to sound haughty when covered with honey and the complete contents of one of John’s pillows, would always be a mystery. John laughed harder. Sherlock managed to catch his breath long enough to wheeze out two words, “April Fools.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened. “Oh, grow up.”

John sputtered. “Tarred and feathered. Oh my God. This is so much better than if you’d walked in first.”

Faced with the pair of them in uncontrolled convulsions of levity, Mycroft straightened his spine, pulled back his shoulders, and stalked out of the flat. Sherlock continued to chuckle as he crossed to his chair. “That was, perhaps, the best use of the day yet.”

John smirked. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Though, that was meant for me, was it not?”

John shrugged. “You exploded a dead body in my face, Sherlock. Let’s not split hairs.”

“What is this?!” John turned to see a rather irate looking Mrs. Hudson at the top of the stairs. “I thought I told you two to stop with this nonsense!” She tutted and set a tray of tea and buns on the kitchen table. “This is going to take ages to clean,” she moaned.

“I’ll clean it, Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “It’s my fault. Don’t worry. I’ll clean it.”

“And why are your clothes in that bag,” she gestured to the yellow plastic still clenched in John’s hand.

“Accident at the morgue,” Sherlock supplied evenly.

She glared at them both, hands on her hips. “The pair of you! I’ve half a mind to take this back down stairs. Imagine. Two grown men like you.” She muttered all the way back down the stairs to her flat.

John glanced at the tray and back at Sherlock, raising his brows in question. Sherlock shrugged, and they both started laughing again.

~o~

“John.”

He winced and shifted. The fogginess seemed rather tenacious as he winced again.

“John.”

Sherlock sounded close by. Really close. Practically on top of him. He groaned and tried to lift an arm to his head and found them resolutely stuck. That was alarming.

“John, wake up,” Sherlock growled.

That did it. John forced his eyes open, blinking through the blurred edges and overly bright light. “Sherlock, wha…” Why was Sherlock so close? Why was he draped across Sherlock’s chest? Why the fuck was he handcuffed around Sherlock?

Sherlock cleared his throat lightly as John frowned. “It appears Mrs. Hudson does, in fact, have a temper, John.”

“What?” he hissed as he tried to sit up, wincing as the metal dug into his wrists.

“No, don’t.” Sherlock grimaced. “A temper and two pairs of handcuffs.”

John raised a brow. “So your hands…”

“Behind my back, yes.” Sherlock confirmed flatly.

“And my cuffs are…”

“Wrapped around mine. Yes.”

“And she…”

“Drugged the tea, I suspect.”

“How did she… No, you know what, I don’t want to know.”

Sherlock made an agreeable sound.

“You don’t suppose…” John tried to flex more feeling into his fingers. “That she might have…”

“Left a key?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah. She wouldn’t be so cruel as to…”

“Do you see the ribbon tied to the skull?”

John turned, craning his neck to see the mantle. “Yeah…” When Sherlock was silent, he turned back, blinking up at the pained expression on Sherlock’s face. “That’s the key, is it?”

“It is.”

“And you can’t… I dunno… Pick the locks?”

“We’re in Baker Street, John.”

“Meaning?”

“Lockpicks are in my coat.”

“In the kitchen.”

Sherlock nodded.

John nodded back. “So… Tarring and feathering your brother was her line, then?”

Sherlock hummed. “Might have been the honey on the floor.”

“Not you hosing down the loo?”

“Little soapy footprints from the Daz.”

“Bits of cadaver all over my jacket?”

“You have to admit, that was a good one.”

John tried to glare, but their proximity made it difficult.

“How are you at escaping handcuffs?”

“I’m not breaking my thumb,” he said blandly. “And neither are you.”

Sherlock frowned. “Then I’m open to suggestions here, John. But at the moment, we’re quite stuck.” It shouldn’t have been funny. It really shouldn’t. But John snickered. “It’s not funny.” John laughed harder. “John,” Sherlock complained, barely keeping the amusement from his voice. John started to giggle, high pitched and uncontrolled, dropping his forehead against Sherlock’s sternum. “John,” Sherlock huffed out with a chuckle. And in a moment, a deep rumbling laugh shook free.

“She wins.” John giggling escalated. “She wins April Fools.” They laughed for longer than either would ever admit. And once they had control of themselves again, John risked glancing up at Sherlock. “Ok, so, about that key…” Then he broke down laughing again.


	13. When Cyprinidea Dream of Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on fleurdelis221B's prompt: Okay, so a goldfish falls on someone’s head as they stand on the sidewalk. Which one dropped it, which one did it land on?
> 
> I've been doing a lot of drabble in the wee hours because of the this woman... This one is long enough on its own to have a solo chapter. I might just combine some of the other ones into another chapter.
> 
> Totally unbeta'd, uh... I dunno that I even proofread this myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/118344421118/okay-so-a-goldfish-falls-on-someones-head-as

I mean, I’ll be honest with you, when you see a goldfish go flying out the window of 221B, heading rapidly for the pavement below, my first thought is always Sherlock. Sherlock, who sets the table on fire, who stores body parts in the fridge, who once hid a small bacterial plate under the skull just to get even for the cigarettes being stashed there the one time. I mean, who else are you going to suspect tossed the goldfish? John?

John Watson probably has a bit more respect for life than to just chuck a small fish from a window. I mean, Sherlock calls him sentimental for it. John will eat fish, so why should he care so damn much about a little, slightly brainless, aquatic vertebrate? Not that Sherlock wouldn’t imply that it probably just reminds John of himself. And John will probably remind Sherlock at least he doesn’t store the sodium chloride next to the pure sodium. And Sherlock might remind John that it’s alphabetical. And so on.

Obviously, it wouldn’t be Mrs. Hudson. Not at all. She might rescue a goldfish from 221B, on one of the days she ventures up with a tray of tea. Seeing the poor thing in a bowl, sitting dangerously close to the hob, with all the who knows what about that kitchen. She’d happily take it back down to her place, set it on the coffee table, chat to it while she takes her evening soother, hell, she has some fish food stashed in one of her cupboards somewhere. And she was very strongly considering doing just that when the poor thing went straight out the window. And she was back downstairs in a flash, looking for a bowl and water to go try and retrieve the poor thing.

Anthea honestly didn’t care who tossed the goldfish; the timing was just impeccable. She had sat in the car for five minutes watching her boss build himself up for the battle at hand. She had actually exited to the pavement, waiting beside the vehicle as he stood firmly beneath the window. And she had only, ONLY let the corner of her mouth twitch at the squelching sound an airborne _Carassius auratus_ makes when it comes in contact with a pristine Saville Row suit jacket. Her eyes only flicked up for a moment before she retrieved a bottle of water and a cup from the car, handing them over wordlessly and returning to her mobile as the creature was salvaged. Certainly her boss was aware of the camera function on it. Certainly he had access to it and all of the stored files. And it would certainly be worth the glowering looks for the next week. She had an eidetic memory, the picture was unnecessary. It was more of a reminder for him. For later.

Mycroft now, he was positive it was Sherlock. No one else was infuriating enough to manage something so absurd. And with the silence as he ascended the stairs, he was now certain it was Sherlock. But as he reached the landing and crossed the threshold, he was, admittedly, the tiniest bit surprised at what he saw. Surely, Detective Inspector Lestrade did often have a look of shock and horror on his face when confronted with Mycroft’s little brother; whether deserving or not, Lestrade tolerated more abuse than a person ought. And Lestrade was now looking quite horrified at the open window. None of that was overly shocking. Sherlock, on the other hand, was also gazing at the open window, the expression on his face far more complex than that of the Detective Inspector. A bit of horror, yes, but curiosity, disappointment, perhaps a touch of melancholy, and yes, amusement. His long fingers still wrapped around the lip of the fishbowl still clutched between Lestrade’s palms. Ah. Interesting. John Watson was on the sofa, face buried in his palms as if he not only should have expected the outcome at hand, but somehow thought he could have prevented it. He couldn’t, of course. But he’d probably feel guilty about it, nonetheless, for a few days. Pedantic. Dull. Ineffective. Mycroft needed Sherlock working on this. And if he wanted Sherlock to function, he needed John Watson captaining the ship. And if John was to function, distraction over a goldfish was undeniably undesirable. Mycroft sighed, cleared his throat, and tilted his head. “Lose something, brother dear?”

All three heads in the room turned. As expected, Sherlock pieced it together first, but his intellectual curiosity over missiled Cyprinidae won out over his amusement for a moment. John Watson, ever improving in his observational skills, figured it out a fraction of a second later, noticing the goldfish shaped, wet patch on Mycroft’s jacket, no doubt. And in his relief and realization and amusement at the whole situation, John Watson started to giggle. It was impressive, the way that the man laughed. Ever serious, stalwart, commanding, ruthless, deadly John Watson giggled like a small child: high pitched, musical, and unrestrained. Mycroft often wondered how often John Watson had laughed as a child, and if he was making up for lost time. Of course, once John Watson started to giggle, Sherlock was never far behind. And sure enough, deep rumbling chuckles joined the giggles as two grown men nearly doubled over in their mirth.

Mycroft pretended to be horribly put out. He raised a brow, pursed his lips, and glared at his brother. Then purposely schooled his expression, crossed the room, and returned the poor animal to the fishbowl in Lestrade’s hands as the laughter slowly died off. “Detective Inspector,” he murmured. “Perhaps subjecting your daughter’s pets to the rather poor influences of Baker Street is ill-advised.”

At least there was the reaction. Mycroft enjoyed watching Lestrade squirm. And he did. Rather beautifully. And he flushed, and scratched the back of his neck, dropping his gaze to the floor. And he cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks. That’s actually the fourth one this month. Bloody things keep dying.” When he looked up again, his smile was self-deprecating enough to be amusing. And Mycroft made a sound which might have been agreement.

“Look John,” Sherlock purred from his chair. “Mycroft found himself a goldfish.” And promptly lost himself in laughter.

And at that moment, as he rolled his eyes and frowned at Sherlock, Mycroft was eternally grateful for the confused expressions on both John Watson and Lestrade’s faces.


	14. Because Fleur is a Terrible Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Fleurdelis221b because she sends me a flurry of prompts just to torture me.
> 
> This is 3 of the most recent drabbles. None of them are particularly long enough to stand alone, so you get three in one :)
> 
> **The Appropriate Use of Catalogs**
> 
> **On Musical Tastes and the Soundtrack of Life**
> 
> **Mike Stamford Likes Cats**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to put the links to the original prompt straight into the chapter this time.

[ **The Appropriate Use of Catalogs** ](http://fleurdelis221b.tumblr.com/post/117535214208/ewebie-fleurdelis221b-overfathomsdeep)

Sherlock Holmes is a master of disguise, the world’s only consulting genius *cough* correction, detective, and particularly gifted at picking apart the minutiae of life as displayed on an individual that most, well, all other people failed to notice out of habituation or sanity. Any thoughts or theories he couldn’t comprehend by personal experience, he beats into mental submission with research and experimentation. And it is knowing all of these things, that John Watson couldn’t understand why anyone would think Sherlock “Nature, no; Human, no” Holmes wouldn’t experiment with sex. Sure, there is plenty of online research available… And experimentation was clearly an option for someone so… so… fucking gorgeous. But a virgin, no. That was just silly.

Less and more disturbing, was the fact that John was quite certain that Sherlock had not only experimented, perhaps dabbled in sex when he was younger, but that he likely could sham his way though sex if he so put his mind to it. Maybe not so far as faking an orgasm, but hell, Sherlock had done weirder things. But that was the line. It was John’s line. He would not tolerate Sherlock shamming his way though sex. If he didn’t want to do… sex, anything, that was fine. Seriously fine. It’s all fine. But pretending to want it, pretending to enjoy it, just to get someone else off so you could leave… Well, that made John feel rather dirty, and not a sexy dirty, just a miserable dirty.

And John Watson was quite comfortable with himself. Comfortable with Sherlock. Comfortable in his button downs and jumpers, comfortable not being as ethereal as Sherlock, comfortable not being as smart as Sherlock, comfortable not seeing, no, observing as much as Sherlock did. But there were a few things that John Watson knew better than Sherlock. People was one of them: that gut reaction at a meeting, that smell in the air of something going wrong, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end and knowing that the person you were looking at was good or bad. John just ‘got’ people. And he was good at sex. Maybe because he understood people. Maybe because he enjoyed sex, and really enjoyed good sex. Maybe because he appreciated the finer points that all people had to offer and people were beautiful and fuck if they couldn’t appreciate each other. And those were things that Sherlock couldn’t study under a microscope, or read thousands of articles on, or pick apart with detail. Because frankly, it wasn’t about the details. It was about the whole.

So John Watson, in all his own, self-possessed wisdom, set his mind to research of his own. He wanted to know what Sherlock looked like during sex. And none of that shamming nonsense. He would catalog the expressions of excitement and torment and blissed out debauchery of one Sherlock Holmes. And no one else would ever be allowed to question the research, because fuck if he’d let anyone else experiment with his partner.

But… how do you create a catalog of microexpression? Or would it even be microexpression? John shrugged, sipped his tea, and decided he’d figure it out as he went. Because, he wasn’t as methodically minded as Sherlock, and hell, this wasn’t going to be that kind of experiment…

* * *

 

[ **On Musical Tastes and the Soundtrack of Life** ](http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/118295041828/fleurdelis221b-girlfrom-thesea-uve-got-a)

Well, let’s be honest. You 100% know that John Watson has a punk ass mind. That fucking arsehole spent at least 6 years at uni studying to be a doctor, and (ignoring whatever drivel that was at BBCcon) 4-6 years working his way up from intern and house officer to a registrar before he was like… nope… too boring! TO BATTLE! And rocked off to practice his skills where people were shooting and bombing the operating rooms. Yeah, that’s more like it. John Watson thinks he likes loud. He likes the fast paced, the hard edged, the sounds that get his heart beating and his blood pumping and he tackles in Rugby to London Calling and he marches to God Save the Queen and he cuts to I Wanna Be Sedated. He doesn’t like still. His mind doesn’t like still. His body certainly doesn’t like still. And he can sit and be immobile and patient and stalk an enemy or spend hours picking bits of shrapnel out of leg while running Smash It Up in his head. And it’s not distracting, it’s centering, it’s focusing, it’s the rhythm of his breathing and the flick of his fingers and stomping of his boots.

… Except, it turns out that getting shot and nearly dying quiets things down a bit. Adds scratches to the vinyl. Jumbles the stations a bit. And John Watson… Punk brained bastard that he is, wakes up to a different tune. It’s not that it’s gone. He can still hear it if he listens, if he wants to, if he grabs the dial and turns the volume up and kicks the player and his brain rages on to Cherry Bomb or, when he really really needs it, Psycho Killer will dominate the airwaves. But it takes effort now. He has to want it, ramp himself up to it. The day to day has become… quieter? Softer? Acoustic. And if he’s honest with himself, it’s always been there. But he’d spent forever letting his brain run the show. And at the end of the day, that’s not how life works.

But the songs are familiar. Just without pomp, without the noise, about half speed. And it’s that background, steady, solid rhythm of his heart that let’s him talk to Harry on the phone for the twelfth time in a week when she calls him drunk, crying, missing her wife. And the simple harmonic voice and guitar that brings him back to medicine, though not in an operating room, but the daily melody of general practice. And the silence of unamplified chords, of sans percussion, of fingers on strings plucking out tunes that lets him sit in a beat up armchair, fluff a worn out union jack pillow, open the paper and sip tea for an hour without getting bored. Punk mind but acoustic heart…

John Watson is also finding he has classical music in his soul… And he’s rather fond of the violin.

* * *

**[Mike Stamford Likes Cats](http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/118360679108/fleurdelis221b-loudest-subtext-in-television) **

Stop it! Stop this! I have a national conference presentation tomorrow!

And Mike is not a garbage magnet.

Mike is an angel.

Mike is kind and compassionate and giving of his time and a little bit naive. But he only has good intentions at heart. He has a big heart. He spends too much time working. Too much time with his patients. Too much time with his students. He answers emails at 4am, not because he was awake or because they were urgent, but because he remembers struggling through med school and the whole ambiguity of everything and how that used to stress him out too. And he probably should join a gym or go back to playing weekend rugby, but by the time he’s on his way home, it’s awfully late for a run, or for the gym, or really for cooking, so he grabs a takeaway. He eats on the go. And he’s always late for everything. It’s not intentional. He’s actually knows his schedule. But when people ask him questions on the way out the door, he’ll stop and answer them, he’ll unlock his office to grab that paper or textbook or phone number just to help out.

He has 3 cats. One belonged to an ex who left the cat when she left him. He loves the giant, black and brown tabby. It’s fluffy and friendly and eats half the food he leaves out for the lot of them but curls up in his lap when he reads the paper on weekends. The second is an oddly colored siamese. Or maybe is a siamese… perhaps? It’s skinny, lanky, and absolutely up its own arse. But that night Mike was running home in the rain and tripped over the shoebox to find the poor starved thing… Yeah he brought it home. Yeah he took it to the vet, and got it its shots, and cleaned the mange out of its fur, and figured out the canned food it would eat (since the damned thing turned its nose up at everything else), and made sure it was dry and healthy. And Mike tolerates the hisses and the swipes, because it’s probably the only way it knows how to show affection. Not everyone can like hugs. The third one showed up on his doorstep. Mike opened his door one morning to go to work and it was just there, sitting, calmly waiting. Mike hadn’t really thought much of it. There were plenty of cats in the neighborhood. But when he got home from work, the gingery tom cat was still there. Sitting. Waiting. Mike opened the door, held it open and the poor thing limped on inside. Sure it was late, too late to be bringing it to the vet, so Mike gave it some food and figured in the morning, he could spare an hour and find the owner and get it checked out. And come morning, the food dish was empty, but the little ginger was nowhere to be found. Mike spent nearly an hour looking before he found it curled up with his temperamental siamese. He nearly lost a finger scooping up the tom cat for the vet. So Mike had a companion for the day. It curled up on the blanket he kept in his office; at lunch, it was introduced to the vet, had a cast put on its paw, and was confirmed to be a stray; for the afternoon, it sat on the corner of Mike’s desk, perched on an anatomy text, quiet and still. And when Mike returned home, the siamese was waiting. And for the next two weeks seemed intent on occupying the same space as the injured tom. Mike didn’t mind much, the hissing had basically stopped and he had far fewer scratches. So he has 3 cats.

Funny thing about that, Dr. Hooper likes cats too. Horribly pleasant lady. Any of his students that seem even remotely interested in pathology get sent to her for teaching. She’s the least upsetting, so very chatty, and she is rather pretty. Pitty about that separation. He’d rather wanted her to find a nice fellow. Sure they’d talk all about when they had their coffee meeting next week.

 


	15. DH Monro Wasn't Kidding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one comes from an "awful AU" prompt:
> 
> “Every time you raise your hand to answer a question in lecture you manage to work a pun in somewhere, and NO ONE ever notices except me. Everyone thinks I’m crazy because I’m always laughing for ‘no reason’ and lately you’ve taken to winking at me every time you drop a joke. I have had ENOUGH I will fucking fight you right in front of the whole class” AU
> 
> That showed up on my dash because of fleur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I thought... sure... why not... it's not like I have a job and work and stuff and adulting to do...
> 
> http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/118927730603/awful-au-259

“The mitochondria…” the professor droned on.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Dull. How many times did he have to sit in lecture and hear about the damn mitochondria. If the words ‘power house of the cell,’ were uttered, he would walk out. Storm out. Gleefully depart and never return. This man needed to be fired.

“… Up to ten different complete copies of mtDNA per mitochondrion.”

Sherlock shuddered as the chalk squeaked on the slate, the number ten being drawn largely and ridiculously in the center of the board. Boring. Who even used chalkboards anymore? He eyed the board with growing distain. There were exactly fifteen unrelated words scratched out. None were necessary. They were borderline irrelevant.

“Classification of mitochondrial DNA presents a challenge. Does anyone know what system is employed in this case?”

Sherlock sighed heavily and slumped further down in his seat. Could this get anymore tedious? He shot daggers at the scattered hands that went up around the large lecture theater.

“Sir, studies into mitochondrial DNA tend toward differentiation into cladistic haplogroups.”

Accurate. Sherlock’s face twisted into something of not complete ire.

“Very good, Mr. Watson. And how have they managed the ten copies?”

Ah. No one really cares. The statistics into these irrelevant thoughts were agonizing.

“Dewey have to, Sir?”

Sherlock nearly choked, quickly covering the sound in a cough. Did he just…

“Do you think ten is an inconsequential number, Mr. Watson? Ten types.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the back of the other student’s head, golden blond hair shaking back and forth in a no response.

“Like the types of people that understand binary, Sir. Not at all inconsequential. But there’s a problem with sampling bias in the under represented haplotypes that has yet to be overcome. The number of copies is a rather moot point until that problem can be solved, no?”

Sherlock clamped down on his lower lip, the urge to laugh novel and surprising and a bit unbidden. The pun, both puns rather, had been spoken so swiftly, coolly, that the professor hadn’t even noticed. No one had noticed. There wasn’t a single flinch or snicker from the entire room.

“Good point, Mr. Watson. Now, the tracing of mitochondrial DNA…”

Sherlock frowned. How could such a particularly brilliant joke go unappreciated? He wrinkled his nose and began to absently tap the top of his pen against his lip. And who exactly is Mr. Watson? When the lecture drew to a merciful close, Sherlock was still watching the back of that blond head.

~o~

It wasn’t for another few days that Sherlock noticed him again. Chemistry. Sherlock adored chemistry. It held that perfect combination of predictability and chaos that could fix his attention. Fascination. Lectures were still tedious to the extreme. And ten minutes into this one, Sherlock was already drifting off into his own head, composing music to the atomic numbers. The door creaking noisily distracted him.

“You’re late, Mr. Watson.” No sneaking into this lecture hall. And the professor was notoriously abusive in response to tardiness.

Most of the heads in the hall turned towards Watson, some annoyed with the interruption, some mercifully sympathetic to his plight; Sherlock studied him. The blond hair was just on the far side of shaggy, probably needed to be cut, but was outgrown in pure collegiate spite of rules; his cheeks were flushed, as though he’d been running, exertional vasodilation, but he wasn’t breathing heavily, fitness from sport apparent in the way he moved; his hands twitched against the strap of his knapsack, in agitation perhaps, delicate, tapered fingers, dexterous, stained with… motor oil?

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he answered earnestly. “Car trouble.”

Ah, it was motor oil. Interesting that he’d be capable of fixing his own car, fixing his own car and only getting oil on his fingers; he knew about cars then. Sherlock frowned and filed that bit of information away for later.

“No one cares,” the professor retorted testily. Sherlock raised a brow; well, that was rude. “Take a seat, Mr. Watson.”

The other students attended the harsh tone in the professor’s voice, turning forward in their seats once more. Few of them heard the light objection that came from Watson. “But all the good ones Argon.”

Sherlock snorted. Just once. Just quietly. And Watson heard him. Ah, that was something he’d failed to notice: deep blue eyes, almost navy, and absolutely lit with mischief. The corner of Watson’s mouth quirked and he slid easily from the aisle into a vacant seat at the back of the room. Sherlock snapped his head forward. Trouble. That man was trouble.

~o~

Thermodynamics seemed like a useful topic. Practical knowledge to retain. Practical for a great many reasons and for a great many uses. Sherlock actually paid attention in this class. If for no other reason than to correct the professor when he was wrong, which was shockingly infrequent. He’d not say it was fascinating, but relevant enough to hold his interest.

“Conceptually, with enthalpy and entropy many students struggle.” Sherlock watched the equations appear on the powerpoint sequentially. Obviously people struggled. Clearly they were idiots. “And the difference is?” There was a pause. “Mr. Watson?”

Sherlock’s head swiveled to the side as Watson glanced up, a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. There was a moment when Sherlock was actually concerned that the other student hadn’t been paying enough attention.

But then Watson’s shoulders dropped into neutral, he licked his lower lip, and gave an easy smile. “Enthalpy is the sum of internal energy of matter added to the product of pressure and volume, Sir.”

“Not bad. And entropy?”

“An ever increasing problem that favors a random state over a structured one.”

Sherlock snickered. Then dropped his head in horror. He never encouraged that kind of humor. Jesus.

Watson’s eyes flicked over to Sherlock for a fraction of a second, his smile increasing ever so slightly as he finished his answer. “For thermodynamics, it represents the unavailability of a system’s thermal energy for conversion into mechanical work. And,” the corner of his mouth quirked. “It’s just not what it used to be.”

Sherlock flattened his palm over his mouth to keep from snickering again.

“Very good, Mr. Watson. I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.”

“Always, Sir.”

The lecture resumed. Sherlock busied himself with the sheets of paper in front of him. He resolutely ignored Watson. He definitely didn’t look over at him, and he certainly didn’t see the cheeky grin and cocked eyebrow that Watson directed at him. And he wasn’t at all amused.

~o~

More about ionic bonds. More about covalent bonds. This was secondary school material. Hadn’t these idiots learned about this yet? If not for the ridiculous rule about attendance and grades, Sherlock wouldn’t subject himself to this class anymore. Perhaps it was dangerous associating the drone of the Chemistry professor with his newest composition, but music and science were so inextricably entwined in his brain that Sherlock couldn’t seem to care.

“And do you think, Mr. Watson, that sodium is likely to favor a hydrogen bond?”

Sherlock’s ears pricked. It was Pavlovian conditioning at its best. The voice came from somewhere over his left shoulder, moderate, neutral, calm. He was beginning to enjoy that voice. It wasn’t overly deep, but then again, Watson wasn’t terribly tall. Charismatic, maybe. But not tall.

“Na.”

A small laugh burst through Sherlock’s lips. And he looked up in horror as a third of the room turned to eye him strangely.

“Anything I should know about, Mr. Holmes?”

Fuck. Sherlock coughed and cleared his throat. “No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” He coughed again for good measure. It was a weak defense, but the majority of students seemed to buy it, turning back to the front. “Bit of a cold, Sir.” He coughed again.

“Perhaps a sip of water then.”

Sherlock nodded and slid from his seat, heading up the aisle for the door. He had to walk past Watson. And he had to catch his eye. Watson was watching him, his tongue resting on his lower lip as he bit back a smile. And as Sherlock passed, he winked. Sherlock felt himself flush out to the tips of his ears as he fled the room.

~o~

It wasn’t as if he was following Sherlock. At least, that’s what Sherlock was hoping. But every lecture they shared, and it was an awful lot of lectures, Watson seemed to find a seat relatively close to him. Not next to him, never next to him. But close. And it’d now been four times. FOUR. That his infuriating puns had made Sherlock laugh in the middle of a lecture. Laugh loud enough that the professor heard, that the other students heard. And they all looked at him as if he were insane. Granted, the joke about zero Kelvin just being okay, and the one about… No. NO! They were not funny. They were not amusing. They were entirely spoken with the goal of embarrassing Sherlock and making more people think him crazy. The madness had to end.

Biology again. Biology was only moderately interesting. Transport for all beings. Relevant to an extent but grossly deletable. And rather unamusing. Good. Sherlock settled himself into the far back corner of the lecture theater with the intention of tuning out for the next hour. Maybe he would tidy his mind palace. A familiar blond settled into a seat three rows down and five seats to the right. Sherlock wrinkled his nose: Watson. And as if he could read Sherlock’s thoughts, he turned, his eyes finding Sherlock with unfailing accuracy, and a broad, amused smile stretched across his face. He turned away quickly to answer a question from another student at his side – rugby player, basic sciences, not bright enough to finish the degree, drinks too much on the weekends, overcompensating, has a girlfriend of six, no, eight months, cheating on her for three – Sherlock frowned. For someone who had an unerringly clever sense of humor, Watson kept poor company.

“… And why is this so relevant? Yes, Mr. Watson.”

Sherlock tensed. He hadn’t been paying attention. Oh God. Don’t laugh. Do not laugh. Sherlock. Holmes. Control. Yourself.

“Bipedal, Sir. As bipedalism is quite rare in mammals, it is one of the delineations between ancient hominids and modern humans, though the debate over the evolutionary pressures to become so is still being kicked around.”

Sherlock snorted, then resolutely schooled his face. He wouldn’t laugh at this ridiculousness. A few heads turned in confusion.

Watson continued. “Though, statistically speaking, the majority of people have an above average number of legs.”

That did it. Sherlock let loose a chuckle. More heads turned. More of them were watching him warily, as if he were plotting something desperate. The professor glanced up at his corner. “Alright there, Mr. Holmes?”

Watson turned, an expression of pure innocence on his face. Sherlock glared at him. He knew. He KNEW what he was doing. How could he pretend to be so dumb and be so clever and act so innocent and get a rise out of… Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Yes. Fine.”

Watson looked about to turn back front, as most of the faces returned to the professor. But just as Sherlock was about to curl up on himself in the corner, Watson winked at him. Sherlock fumed.

~o~

Sherlock couldn’t tolerate the amused expressions on Watson’s face. He just couldn’t. He opted to sit further front. That way he wouldn’t have to look at the man. Wouldn’t have to glare at him every time he made a spectacle. Every time he made Sherlock laugh in class. Every time the people around him though Sherlock was mad. This was bullying. Granted, a much more intellectual form of it, but it was terrible. And every time Sherlock saw Watson, all he could deduce about the man was the idiotic puns that he’d already spoken in class, the gossip that had been floating around the university, the basic, ordinary things. It was infuriating!

He sighed and pretended to copy down the latest physics formula. He’d studied this before. He knew this. This was so banal.

“… So Kirchhoff demonstrated conductivity thus.”

“Sir?”

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut. No. No laughing.

“Yes, Mr. Watson?”

“That’s Ohms!”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock blurted out at the same time as his professor. He turned in his seat to glare at Watson.

Watson cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, his right hand flicking at the front of the room, but his gaze remaining resolutely on Sherlock. “Ohm’s law,” he wet his lips, the corners of his mouth threatening a smirk. “It’s all about resistance.”

Sherlock sputtered, blushing instantly.

Watson’s attention returned to the professor, his expression mostly unreadable. “Kirchhoff just reformulated Ohm’s work and published using conductivity as a novel concept. Rather trite, really.”

Sherlock swallowed heavily as the professor’s eyes flit between himself and Watson. “Out.”

“What?” Sherlock hissed.

“The two of you, out.” The professor pointed at Sherlock then at Watson. “I won’t have nonsense in this lecture. If you cannot take this course seriously, I’ll not humor you. Out.”

Watson shrugged. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Sir.” He collected his notes and tucked them neatly into his bag. “I didn’t realize Kirchhoff was a topic anything less than ideally fluid.”

Sherlock was halfway to the exit and he burst out laughing. Watson somehow managed not to. “Out,” the professor repeated.

Watson sighed and headed up the stairs towards the exit at the back, his shoulder brushing Sherlock’s as he passed his side. “That’s the thing about chemists,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not that their stupid, they just fail to react.”

Sherlock choked and nearly fell down the stairs.

With the lecture theater door closed behind them, Sherlock rounded on Watson. “You have to stop!”

“Stop?”

That damned innocent expression on his face! Sherlock growled and ran a hand through his curls, clenching the tips and giving a slight tug. “The puns! They are terrible! Please. They have to stop. You have got to stop. People are looking at me like I’m insane. And I’m not. And it’s your fault!” He poked a finger at Watson’s chest.

Watson smiled lazily. “Coffee?”

“What?!”

It looked as if his face simultaneously shrugged, blinked, and feigned innocence. “Coffee. It’s this thing. Most of us drink it. Stimulant. Bitter. Dark. Hot…” Sherlock furrowed his brow as Watson’s eyes seemed to flick from head to toe and back up. “Sweet.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You want… Coffee?”

Watson nodded. “I’ve an hour to kill now that I’m out of that lecture.”

Sherlock squinted at him. “Are you… Are you flirting?”

Watson raised a brow, his eyes glinting. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Is it working?”

“Will you stop with the terrible puns?”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock groaned.

"It's the only time I see you smile." Watson’s tongue swept across his lower lip as he broke into a smile. He stuck his hand out. “John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter - Chapter 16: **Punny Men and Their Chemicals** is a continuation of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding.  
>  [As is Chapter 17: **Netter Was the Genius, Gray Was the Artist, and Watson the Talented Mouthpiece** ]


	16. Punny Men and Their Chemicals (Part II of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Ok. I get it. Terrible puns are amusing. And flirty Uni John is hot as hell. And I never do this... Except that one other time that I did this. So. Here's part II of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding. But that's it. No more horrible jokes. Please!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to the longest joke ever in the text "Better Late Than Never" ... I take no responsibility for you deciding to lose 45 minutes of your life should you click on it.
> 
> Also... I've linked one other bit near the end. Scientists are nerdy perverts. That is all.

It’s just a cup of coffee. Just one cup of coffee, Sherlock reminded himself over and over as they headed to a nearby café.

“Sherlock, relax,” John murmured. “It’s just killing time before class. I won’t bite.” Sherlock raised a brow and tried to look down his nose at the shorter man, but a gentle hand at the small of his back, guiding him towards one of the booths took the wind right out of his sails. “Unless you’re into that,” John winked as Sherlock stumbled into one side of the booth. “What’ll you have?”

“Um… C-coffee?” Sherlock stammered.

“Back in a tick,” John tossed his knapsack into the booth and headed to the counter, returning moments later with two coffees and a scone. “Hungry?”

Sherlock made an indiscriminant noise high in his throat and waved off the offer of food, dumping three sugar packets into his coffee instead. “So,” Sherlock drawled. “John Watson.” He narrowed his eyes at him, studying his face, his form, the way he was holding his coffee – milk, no sugar. “What’s a medical student doing playing rugby instead of studying?”

John cocked his head, one eyebrow raising. “Who said I don’t study?”

“The team here trains daily with Friday or Saturday matches, your course load includes all the basic sciences, each of which carries a heavy lab component. You work part time at the pub up the road, mostly on Sundays at the bar and restocking in the evenings, as well as the bakery next door early in the mornings. You’re diligent with your appearance and fitness, popular with the lads, not terribly unpopular with the ladies, and yet no where, in that rather rigid schedule, is there time to study.” Sherlock paused to take a breath.

The corner of John’s mouth pulled back in the beginning of a stunned smile. “Brilliant.”

“Sorry, what?”

John shook his head and crammed a large bite of scone into his mouth. “That was. I’d heard you’re rather clever, but that was actually amazing.” He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “Unless, of course, you’re stalking me.”

Sherlock sputtered.

“Which would be awesome,” John finished casually. “But no. I’d have noticed you skulking about.”

“I don’t skulk,” Sherlock muttered scornfully.

“Then what do you do, Sherlock Holmes? When you’re not getting me kicked out of lecture.”

“That was hardly my fault.”

“That was entirely your fault,” John countered. “Just because you can’t keep from laughing at me.”

“Are you tormenting me?”

“Tormenting? No.” John paused, considering Sherlock carefully. “Teasing, maybe. I can’t help it if you find my humor unavoidably amusing.”

“It’s terrible,” Sherlock said flatly. “And you should be ashamed.”

“And yet, you’re the only one that laughed,” John grinned.

“I’m the only one that understood it.”

“Clever you.”

“People are idiots.” Sherlock frowned. “Speaking of idiots, why do you hang out with such dull people?”

John pursed his lips, “You mean my teammates?”

“Yes, idiots, the lot of them. They’ll make you stupid. They don’t appreciate you.”

“Who should I hang out with then?”

“Someone who appreciates more than whether or not you can hit someone harder than they can hit you,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Someone who appreciates me for… what then? For my wit?”

“Yes.”

“Someone who laughs at my jokes, then?”

“Of course.”

John leaned forward, crossing halfway over the small table. “Someone like you, then?”

“I…” Sherlock stopped, snapped his mouth shut dumbly. “That’s not…”

“Someone who tells me that my friends are all idiots, and I don’t study enough, and my jokes are terrible?” John grinned wolfishly. “I can see the appeal.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Don’t pout.” John eased back into his seat, returning some of Sherlock’s personal space. “I already told you why I’m not going to stop with the puns.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Because…” He thought back. “Because they make me smile? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” John’s expression softened. “Have you seen yourself when you laugh?”

“Of course I have. It’s my face.” Sherlock brushed the comment away without thinking it through. “There has to be another reason.”

“For the jokes?” John raised both of his eyebrows. “Well, they help me learn. I’m good at remembering stories and jokes. So,” he shrugged. “I’ve all sorts of them stashed away.”

“You have jokes for… for all of your subjects?”

“Sure.”

“So, say particle physics?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course. Atoms… ahhhr matter to me,” John said slowly, the smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock groaned and he took it as encouragement. “How do you know that a Higgs-Boson is Catholic?”

Sherlock gave him a skeptical look. “How?”

“They have mass, Sherlock.” John grinned at his own joke. “That’s how you know gluons are Protestants. No mass. To be honest, particle accelerators give me a hadron.”

Sherlock snickered around a sigh. “Horrible. Geometry.”

“You know that a polar bear is actually a Cartesian bear after a coordinate transform.”

“Atrocious, John!” Sherlock chuckled. “Biology.”

“Oh no,” John held out his hands. “There’s nothing funny about mitosis jokes. Once you say one, everyone splits!”

“Terrible,” Sherlock laughed. “Psy-psychology?”

“I like my dates like I like my dopamine reuptake,” John paused for effect. “Uninhibited.”

Sherlock kept laughing, a rosy flush to his cheeks the only acknowledgement of the sexual connotation. “God-awful. Animal husbandry.”

John chuckled. “How many mice does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

“I… I don’t know,” Sherlock wheezed helplessly.

“Two,” John said earnestly. “But God knows how they got in there!” Then John broke down in a fit of high-pitched giggles. And just like that, the pair of them were only just keeping from literally rolling in the aisles with laughter. John managed to catch his breath first, wiping a tear from his eye, “Stop, Sherlock, stop. We can’t. People will think we’re nutters.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

John let out a few spare chortles as he tried to reign in the humor, “Ah well, you know what they say. [Better Nate than lever](http://www.reddit.com/r/Jokes/comments/1fcjkl/the_longest_joke_in_the_world_lost_in_the_desert/).”

“That’s backwards John,” Sherlock huffed, then he narrowed his eyes. “No, that’s a punch line.”

“Oh God,” John groaned. “I am not telling you that one. You can look it up later. Much later. When I’m no where near you and you can’t get mad at me for it.”

“Is it really that terrible?”

“You’ve no idea,” John sighed. “Just… yeah… don’t. Gimme your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone,” John stretched out his hand, palm up, as he retrieved his coffee, taking a large sip.

Sherlock found himself handing it over. “Why?”

John quickly started tapping at the buttons, the sound of a sent text breaking the silence before he handed it back. A soft chime followed and he tugged his mobile from his pocket and glanced at it, fired off a text and tucked it back into his pocket, returning his attention to his coffee and scone.

Sherlock nearly dropped his phone as it vibrated in his hand. Incoming text. He opened it. It was a reply from (new contact) John Watson to a previous text from his own phone. Sherlock frowned.

**John, should I call you later? –SH**

**_You should if you want to be Mg2Mg5Si8O22(OH)2 –JW_ **

“Is that another pun?” Sherlock raised a brow as he studied the chemical signature. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

John shifted slightly in the seat, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Not really a joke, no.”

“I think I much prefer riddles.”

“Ah,” John considered that for a moment. “Well, I need to use the loo. So how about this: What’s round and orange and has four wheels?”

“What?”

“Think about it. I’ll be back in a tick,” John grinned and headed for toilets at the back.

Sherlock frowned. He finished the dregs of his coffee, drummed his fingers on the table, and continued to frown. He started as fingertips brushed his shoulder and John slid back into the booth, then he frowned at John. “What?”

“What?” John raised both brows, the knowingly innocent expression making Sherlock huff in annoyance.

“The answer, John. What is the answer?”

John grinned. “Oh. That.”

“Yes that,” Sherlock growled.

“You couldn’t figure it out?”

Sherlock gave him a dark look.

John sucked his lower lip between his teeth and smiled around it. “Come on. We’ll be late for Biology.” He grabbed his knapsack and slipped out of the booth and straight out the door.

“John!” Sherlock scrambled to catch up. “That’s not fair.”

John turned, walking backwards so he could watch Sherlock’s face. “Oh, alright fine.” He side-stepped a rubbish bin without hesitation. “It’s an orange. I lied about the wheels.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “You… Lied…”

“About the wheels.” John stopped too, a broad smile on his face. “An orange, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared. He watched John’s delighted expression, the laughter in his eyes, the way he was smirking with the tip of his tongue caught between teeth at the corner of his mouth. It was so irritating, maddening, aggravating. An orange… Infuriating. It was probably a terrible idea, it wasn’t even a fully formed idea, more of a reflex: Sherlock lunged at John. And John Watson dodged easily, let out a little whoop of laughter, and took off running in the direction of their next lecture. And Sherlock tore after him.

John was quick, he’d grant him that. But Sherlock was taller, and his long strides rapidly brought him back in catching range. Though, perhaps expecting to tackle a rather proficient rugby fly-half, or was it scrum-half, was ambitious, even for Sherlock. What he didn’t expect was the rapid turn around as John pivoted gracefully and whirled around Sherlock’s outstretched arm to collar him in a solid headlock.

Sherlock sputtered and clutched at John’s forearm, the hold was firm, unyielding, but not painful. John wasn’t even breathing heavily. “John,” Sherlock complained.

“Yeah?” he smiled easily.

“You can let me go now.”

John’s head tilted off to the side. “So soon? I just got you.” The flush on Sherlock’s face was purely from exertion. Purely. One hundred percent. And the small shiver that traced down his spine was entirely from the slightly awkward position of his limbs. Entirely. “Now that I finally have your attention,” John stooped to bring his lips next to Sherlock’s ear. “Maybe I don’t want to let you go.”

Sherlock swallowed heavily. But the arms vanished, and he was released. Relief? Yes, relief; that was the sensation. Expectation, alleviation, reprieve. That was it. Reprieve. Sherlock straightened, pulling his shoulders back and tugging his shirt down into place. John watched from a respectable distance, a cheeky grin on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” And a flirt.

“Of course I am,” John answered effortlessly. And he was. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

And Sherlock found that he rather liked that John was a flirt. They walked the remainder of the way, side by side, in relative silence. And while John seemed comfortable with the quiet, Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow overstepped a line, committed a social faux pas. “Are you going to stop with the puns?” he asked softly.

“Probably not.”

“Oh.” Sherlock considered it. “Just so I can be ready. So as to not get us kicked out of another lecture. How often should I expect them?”

Without missing a beat, John grinned up at him, “Periodically.” The puff of laughter out of Sherlock was unplanned and only made John’s smile grow. He paused with his hand on the door to the lecture theater. “Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Since this is Biology, do you know what the difference is between helicase and me?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Aside from the fact that helicase is a class of enzymes and you are a human being?”

John huffed out a laugh, pulling the door open for a few of their classmates before heading into the large hall. “You are going to be hard work, aren’t you?”

“What?” Sherlock followed him in, pausing at the top of the stairs.

“What?” John blinked innocently.

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, nothing.” John gestured Sherlock into one of the rows. Taking the seat beside him as if it was something they’d always done. “No difference. We both want to unzip your jeans.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in Sherlock’s chest. “That’s terrible. John, absolutely horrible.”

John smiled sweetly. “I have no idea what you mean.” Beneath the writing ledge, John’s palm landed warmly on Sherlock’s knee as John bent under the pretense of retrieving his notebook from his bag. Sherlock felt the blush spread across his cheeks, the low laugh giving way to a higher, breathier, giggle. Reprieve was the wrong word. Definitely the wrong word. “Shh,” John smirked, giving his thigh a quick squeeze and settling back into his seat. “The lecture is starting.”

Sherlock sighed and attempted to focus on the lecture. He couldn’t. He was far too distracted by the warm shoulder that occasionally brushed his, by the odd twitches and quirks of John Watson’s mouth as he considered the professors drabble. Finally Sherlock gave up. He pulled out his mobile and went online, punching in the chemical formula from John’s text.

As the search engine returned the [answer](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cummingtonite), Sherlock made an odd strangled sound, cut off short by warm fingers wrapping gently around the top of his thigh. His eyes never broke from the front of the room, and Sherlock couldn’t even be sure how John knew about the phone. John pitched his voice low so only Sherlock could hear him murmur, “You won’t be if you get me kicked out of Biology. Behave, Sherlock.”

John Watson was definitely trouble. And Sherlock Holmes liked trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter - Chapter 17: **Netter Was the Genius, Gray Was the Artist, and Watson the Talented Mouthpiece** is the third part of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding.


	17. Netter Was the Genius, Gray Was the Artist, and Watson Was the Talented Mouthpiece (Part III of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, really... This is... This is it. No more. I cannot take it. I've been subjecting everyone I know to really horrible jokes. It has to stop! So... please, accept this as the final installment. Part III of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding. And for the love of God. Please... no more! This is porny, I've managed to destroy some of my man frand's FAVORITE jokes by inserting it into the middle of fluffy smut. If you don't understand one of the puns, let me know; I'm more than happy to explain my idiocy. And for the record, my absolute favorite pirate joke is at the very end.
> 
> And for those of you not WAY into medical texts... Netter's Atlas of Human Anatomy and Gray's Anatomy are two of the most famous and employed anatomy textbooks in medical schools worldwide. Trust me... I've multiple versions of both on my "never ever throw this book away" shelf... And I'm a doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the last one, the more obscure jokes are linked out for ya. Please accept Uni-med student-John making rubbish anatomy jokes. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find Jesus...

Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, he was not [Mg2Mg5Si8O22(OH)2](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cummingtonite). Or the night after that. Or even the night after that. And it was leaving him profoundly frustrated. It wasn’t that John Watson didn’t like him, or wasn’t interested in him, or had somehow changed his mind and mood and horrible sense of humor. But John Watson was terribly overcommitted with his time, and ridiculously dutiful to his obligations. And that left Sherlock deeply annoyed.

The puns hadn’t stopped. Rather, they might have even increased in their frequency. And the touching had as well. Mostly because a firm hand on Sherlock’s thigh was the only thing that John could do to keep him from laughing, and Sherlock wasn’t about to disabuse John of the notion that there weren’t any other options. And until the professors or classmates finally picked up on the inside joke, John Watson had no intention of stopping. It had even bled into their text messages, which were becoming alarmingly frequent.

Even at work, or in an unshared lecture, or in the middle of the night, John seemed ready and able to respond to all of Sherlock’s texts. It was only slightly mollifying. Text was a poor substitute to the unfamiliar swooping sensation wrought by John’s fingers on Sherlock’s person. And at the moment, Sherlock was glaring at his mobile, willing it to chime with a text that he knew full well wouldn’t be arriving for another hour. Because rugby practice was the only time John seemed incapable of staying in contact. Dull.

He flicked the screen back to life and glared at John’s last text.

**_Hey, Sherlock. What’s the difference between a sharply dressed man on a bicycle and a poorly dressed man on a unicycle? –J_ **

The number of patronizing replies had gone unheeded as John was clearly mucking about on a muddy pitch. And as soon as he was done, he’d have to shower, and study, and eat, and sleep (tedious). And then get up the next morning and do it all over again. The wait was agonizing. Sherlock growled and finally turned his frustrations to his violin. When his phone chimed nearly two hours later, Sherlock assured himself that he didn’t scramble to read the message.

**_Calling me a tit isn’t going get you an answer :) –J_ **

**And knuckle-dragging around the pub with those Neanderthals will not aid your cognitive skills. –SH**

There. Sherlock felt better. It was appropriately scathing, blameful, and sharp.

**_Ca2SbMg4FeBe2Si4O20 –J_**

Sherlock blinked. He studied the chemical signature and frowned. He most certainly did not whine in frustration or tug his hair; besides, there was no one to see him do it if he did. After exactly three minutes of trying to remember exactly what rock that was supposed to be, he stopped gnawing on his lower lip and looked it up.[ Goddammit](http://www.mindat.org/min-4267.html).

**John, that is a completely horrendous, juvenile, ludicrous abuse of geology –SH**

**_You know, you could just tell me that you miss me. –J_ **

Sherlock winced. He was not sappy. He was not given to flights of maudlin. And he was not, most definitely not, going to compromise himself for someone so… So…

His phone pinged. Rapidly. Six back-to-back messages.

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**That sent six times, John. Are you drunk? –SH**

**_I have two papers and an exam next week. I most certainly am not drunk.[C4H4AsH](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arsole) –J_ **

Sherlock glared. He grit his teeth and looked up the chemical. Then he sent a terse reply.

**You are an unmitigated arse. –SH**

**_You know they form[rings](http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/anie.197204411/abstract)? –J_ **

**_I wonder if anyone has done studies on[if they smell](http://www.ingentaconnect.com/content/ben/loc/2005/00000002/00000005/art00019) –J_ **

**_Sherlock, you know what you call it when there are[6 of them](http://www.academiaobscura.com/comic-chemicals/)? –J_ **

**_Don’t be a brat, Sherlock. I told you that I was busy until Saturday night. –J_ **

He had. John had been extremely open about his schedule. About his responsibilities. About when he could and could not spend time with Sherlock outside of class. And he’d been extremely explicit about the fact that he did want to spend time with Sherlock outside of lecture and possibly how that time could be spent. But it felt like all build up and no release. And Sherlock was frustrated. FRUSTRATED.

**But you have a rugby match on Saturday. –SH**

**_And I’ll have all night afterwards. –J_ **

**But those imbeciles will drag you out afterwards. I cannot spend time in the company of such halfwits, I don’t care how enthralling your presence is. –SH**

**_You could come to the match. Drag me away after. Save me from the moronic hordes. –J_ **

**_Yes?_ **

**You’re an idiot. –SH**

**_So I’ll see you on Saturday? –J_ **

**Fine. –SH**

**_Wonderful!_ **

**_Oh, and Sherlock. The answer is attire. –J_ **

**Absolutely atrocious. –SH  
**

**_You love it. ;) I’ll see you Saturday. –J_ **

Sherlock sighed and stared at his mobile. Tomorrow was Friday. Tomorrow was a day full of lectures, only one of which he shared with John. That meant there’d be the odd, distracting, and frankly absurd text; a good three hours of radio silence when John was at training; and maybe, if Sherlock was very lucky, a quick phone call before John went to bed. Sherlock preferred to text. But the musical tone of John’s voice and laughter was something to compose by. And Sherlock would make an exception to hear John. It seemed that Sherlock would make all sorts of exceptions for John Watson.

~o~

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“How well do you know your anatomy?”

“I’ve not studied it with academic intent. Why?”

“Want to know what we discussed in Anatomy today?”

Sherlock turned warily. While their voices were both pitched rather low and they were seated at the back of the lecture hall, Sherlock was dead certain he didn’t want anyone else to overhear this conversation. “John, I’m not sure lecture is the place to be discussing this.”

John managed to keep his eyes forward, his attention seemingly fully devoted to the drone of the professor. But Sherlock didn’t miss the slight quirk of his brow, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, if you’re not curious.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced down at his empty page of notes on the ledge. Bored. “Of course I’m curious.”

John’s head bobbed in a militant nod of acceptance. “What grows to five times its original size when excited?”

Sherlock blushed instantly and shrank in his seat. “John!”

John shifted in his chair, leaning casually into Sherlock’s space and shot him a scolding look. “It’s the pupil, Sherlock.” John’s right arm stretched across the back of Sherlock’s seat, even as he faced forward again. It would have been an innocent and friendly motion if not for the light drag of John’s index finger along the collar of Sherlock’s shirt. “And I’ve only three things to say about what you were thinking. One, you have a very dirty mind.” Sherlock shivered at the barely there touch of John’s finger. “Two, you aren’t thinking hard enough. And three, I suspect that you’ll be rather disappointed in life.”

Sherlock felt the tips of his ears burn red as he chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “That’s not the gossip I’ve heard.”

It may have been the first time Sherlock successfully managed to bring a tinge of color to John’s face, and he watched, fascinated as John ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. But John twisted one of Sherlock’s curls around his finger and gave a slight tug, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth, “My adductor isn’t the only thing that’s longus.”

“Oh my God!” Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

~o~

**_Hey, Sherlock. Why is my physiology class SO hard? –J_ **

**John, it’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep? You’ve a match tomorrow. –SH**

**_Humor me. I found this humerus E===3 –J_ **

**You are infallibly idiotic. –SH**

**_Aw, c’mon. You love it. –J_ **

**Fine. Then you go to sleep. Why is physiology so hard? (and if this is a penis joke, so help me, John Watson, you are in trouble) –SH**

**_HA! I should make it a dick joke. No, no. It’s because my professor is really sternum. –J_ **

**You should be ashamed of yourself. –SH**

**_I’m totally not. –J_ **

**I know. It’s one of your charms. –SH**

**_I have more than one? –J_ **

**Don’t fish for complements. It’s beneath you. –SH**

**_What are you working on tonight? –J_ **

**Criminology. It’s fascinating. –SH**

**_Ah man, I never get on with kleptomaniacs. They’re so hard to explain puns to. They always take things. Literally. –J_ **

**John. Stop. You need to sleep. –SH**

**_Alright. You coming tomorrow? –J_ **

**Yes, John. I will come to your match. You’re exhausted. Sleep. –SH**

**_I’m fine, Sherlock. –J_ **

**You’re not. You left an ejaculation pun hanging in your text message. Sleep. –SH**

**_Fine, alright, okay. I’m going to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. –J_ **

**Sweet dreams. –SH**

~o~

Sherlock was not prepared for watching John Watson in action on the rugby pitch. He didn’t think he would ever have been prepared to watch John Watson run and scrum and tackle and battle in short shorts and socks and a jersey. He couldn’t have been prepared for John Watson in command, barking orders to his teammates, facing off with the refs, and staring down some of the much taller opponents; though they always seemed to back down under John’s glare. He possibly was surprised when he flushed at John’s try, and felt a slight stab of jealousy when John was subsequently hoisted onto shoulders in victory. And Sherlock Holmes was definitely not prepared for post-match John Watson, sweaty, muddy, and wild as he shook hands with the opponents and trotted over to the bleachers to present himself to Sherlock.

“So, Sherlock Holmes, did you enjoy the match?”

Sherlock hummed. “I’m glad it was a win. And in my unfathomable depth of sporting knowledge, I think you played rather well.”

John grinned. “Oh yeah? Opponents didn’t seem to think so. They just told me ‘Nice Try,’ condescending bastards.”

Sherlock snickered. “You’re awful.”

“I’m actually filthy,” John frowned. And when Sherlock cocked a brow, John giggled. “I need a shower and a change. How do you feel about dinner?”

“Dull.”

“I’m going to need some food, Sherlock.”

“Take away?”

John shrugged. “As long as you feed me.”

“Hungry are you?” Sherlock tilted his smugly.

John’s smile shifted and he winked. “You’ve no idea. Give me a few minutes to clean up?” He plucked at his jersey and wrinkled his nose.

“If you must.” Sherlock had tried to look bored, tried to wave John towards the showers with a flippant expression and haughty wave of his hand. But John had flashed a roguish grin, reached up with a dirt and grass stained hand to tweak one of Sherlock’s curls, and winked again in departure. And Sherlock had turned a bright shade of crimson and held his breath until the tightness in his stomach had passed.

He waited patiently as John showered and changed. Patiently may have been a stretch, but he waited. Mostly without incident. And watched the other players trickle out of the locker room without much interest. When John finally emerged ages, eons later, Sherlock huffed in annoyance as they headed away from the pitch. “That took an exceptionally long time.”

John shrugged and gave an easy smile. “Maybe I wanted to look nice for you.”

“That,” Sherlock glanced at John’s attire, “Does not look nice.”

John frowned at his well-worn jeans and snug, black jumper. “This is my best jumper.”

“I would never use the word ‘nice’ to describe you,” Sherlock mused. John furrowed his brow, his frown turning into something of an unusual pout. He looked like a puppy. Sherlock wrinkled his nose momentarily and bent forward, bringing his mouth on level with John’s ear. “’Nice’ is not the appropriate term for someone who makes me want to remove every stitch of their clothing with my teeth.”

“Ooooh.” To his credit, John didn’t stumble. He adjusted the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder, smirked for a moment, and glanced up at Sherlock with a dark expression. “Good with your mouth are you?” Sherlock gave a non-committal hum. “Right,” John grinned. “I’ll ask you how to spell cock later. Should be right on the tip of your tongue.”

Sherlock tripped over his own shoe laughing.

“Where are we going anyway?” John asked easily. “If we’re doing a take-away, generally we have to be taking it somewhere.”

~o~

Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of his couch and poked at his dumplings with chopsticks. They’d decided to come back to his, since it was closer, since it didn’t involve negotiating around flat mates like John’s place did, since it was home territory and being around John left Sherlock feeling unsteady, unbalanced, and he wanted whatever advantage he could have. He’d had enough to eat though. He wasn’t hungry. Well, he was hungry. But not that kind of hungry. He glanced up at John again who had just managed to stuff a rather large mouthful of noodles into his mouth in one go.

He smiled around the food and swallowed quickly, “Like what you see?” Sherlock blushed and dropped his head. John bumped his elbow off of Sherlock’s knee. “Come on now. Eat yer dinner.”

“Boring.”

John sucked a bit of grease off of his thumb and licked his lips. “Well, you’re going to have to wait for me to eat. I’m famished.” He took another overly large bite and laughed at the frown on Sherlock’s face.

“John.” Sherlock set his food on the coffee table. “There…” He paused, rallying himself. “There are better things for you to be doing with your mouth,” he finished in a huff.

John doubled over, giggling. “Sherlock…”

“I am actually serious.”

John straightened with a sigh and sucked his lower lip between his teeth. After a moment, he squeezed Sherlock’s thigh. “I know.” He reached over to the table for a swig of his beer. “And it’s adorable. But if you want me to have the energy for some of those ‘better things’ then I need food. I did just spend two hours mucking about on a pitch.”

Sherlock huffed and flopped back against the cushions.

John hummed and knocked the bottle off of Sherlock’s knee before replacing it on the table. “I’ll tell you a story then? To pass the time?”

“If you’d just focus on eating as quickly as possible.”

John grinned and took a bite, speaking around the food. “Once upon a time…”

Sherlock groaned.

“There were three kingdoms, all bordering on the same lake. In the middle of the lake, there was an island with a small fort. For centuries, these three kingdoms fought over the island, the fort changing hands over and over again. One day, they decided to have it out, once and for all.” John watched Sherlock surreptitiously as he snuck in bites of food between sentences. “The first kingdom was quite rich. They sent an army of twenty-five knights and each knight brought three squires and they set up camp on the shore of the lake. The night before the battle, the knights jousted and cavorted as their squires polished armor, cooked food, and sharpened weapons.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

John’s mouth quirked around another large bite of noodles. “The second kingdom was not so wealthy. But they did send ten knights and each knight brought two squires and they set up camp on the shore of the lake. The night before the battle, the knights cavorted and sharpened their weapons and the squires polished armor and cooked food.”

“John,” Sherlock complained.

John dug into the take-away container, nearing the bottom. “Now, the third kingdom was actually very poor, Sherlock. They could only send one knight and he was quite elderly and he only had one squire.”

“Then why send him at all?”

“It’s a joke, Sherlock, be patient.” John scraped the bottom of the container. “The night before the battle, the knight sharpened his weapon, while the squire looped a rope and slung a pot high over the fire to cook dinner and he prepared the knight’s armor. And this is where it gets interesting. Are you listening, Sherlock?”

“Is there anything else I could be doing?” Sherlock pouted.

“The next day, the battle was to begin. But the knights from the first two kingdoms had jousted and cavorted a bit too much, they should have known not to cavort while sharpening weapons and jousting, and none of them were fit for battle. The elderly knight from the third kingdom was so old that he’d passed away in his sleep. And all that was left for battle were the squires. So in the absence of the knights, the squires decided to do battle for the island.” John stretched to set his empty container on the table and picked up his beer. “The battle raged on all day long and late into the evening. There was blood and sweat and excrement, because any good battle has excrement involved.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“But when the dust finally settle, late, late in the night, one solitary figure limped from the carnage.” John sipped his beer. “The lone squire from the third kingdom dragged himself away, beaten, bloodied, but victorious. And you know what that proves, Sherlock?”

“No idea.”

John replaced his empty beer on the table and shifted, pulling himself closer to Sherlock, nudging his knees so he’d stretch his legs out. “It goes to prove, Sherlock,” John stretched himself over Sherlock, his knees resting on either side of Sherlock’s hips, settling warmly atop his thighs. “It just goes to prove, that the squire of the high pot and noose is equal to the sum of the squires of the other two sides.” He tilted his chin down and raised a brow.

Sherlock tried not to smile. He bit both his lips to keep from smiling. He sucked in a breath as he tried, he tried. And he failed. And a deep rumbling laugh burst out of him. “John, that’s absolutely terrible.”

John grinned, his hands rising to cup Sherlock’s face between his palms. “There it is,” he whispered. “It’s been nearly an hour since you smiled like that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed as one callused thumb traced the boundary of his lower lip.

“I really love to see you smile.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the open adoration in John’s gaze. “Really?”

“Really. Very much.” John inched closer, tilting Sherlock’s face up to meet his own. “Better things?”

It took Sherlock a moment to realize that John was waiting, hesitating, holding out for him to say yes. “Please,” Sherlock whispered. And it was the last word Sherlock ever wanted to say as John Watson’s mouth crushed against his and everything became wet and warm and lips and teeth. And then Sherlock remembered that he had arms and hands and fingers and he was allowed to touch. And he did, his fingers mapping the warm weight of a man pinning him back into the couch; the feel of his shaggy gold hair, the texture of his skin along his jaw, the tactile sound of nails scraping down the soft knit of his jumper. And when John’s tongue brushed along the seam of his lips, Sherlock moaned and fisted his hands in John’s clothes and pulled. “Off,” he growled.

John pulled his hand away from where it was already working on the fourth button of Sherlock’s shirt and ran the tip of his index finger down the exposed skin of his neck and chest, a small appreciative smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “Alright.”

He sat back on his heels and Sherlock’s lower thighs and tugged his jumper and tee shirt off in one quick move, exposing toned and tanned chest and shoulders to Sherlock’s scrutiny. The bundle of clothes wound up at the far end of the couch in a ball. Sherlock gulped and stared, his hands resting immobile on John’s thighs. John grinned, carefully unbuttoning the remainder of Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock only watched. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, slowly bringing his eyes back up to John’s face.

John leaned forward to slide the shirt from Sherlock’s arms and took his time to drag his lips lightly across the top of his shoulder, the side of his neck, and the soft spot behind his ear. Sherlock shivered. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his hands clenching reflexively against John’s thighs.

John took it as acknowledgement. “What’s long, hard, and full of seamen?” Sherlock shook his head absently, gulping when the tip of John’s tongue traced the outer shell of his ear. “No?” John purred. “It’s a submarine; get your mind out of the gutter.”

Sherlock huffed out a nervous breath. “John.”

John dragged his nose across Sherlock’s cheek with an airy chuckle. “Yes?”

“You have to stop it.”

“Mmn,” John rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s. “Nope. Not going to happen.” Sherlock’s objection died on the tip of his tongue, or was sucked straight out of his mouth and into John’s. And John’s fingers threaded into his curls, clutching, scratching at his scalp, tugging just enough to bare Sherlock’s throat to warm lips. “Do you know why?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

“Because,” John found a particularly sensitive patch of skin beneath Sherlock’s jaw and nipped at it. Sherlock made a sound high in his throat; that would leave a mark if John kept at it. And he didn’t care. “Relationships are messy, Sherlock. This is messy. Better things are messy. And it’s not clean, and it’s not perfect, and it’s weird and awkward. And laughing makes everything better.”

There was some logic in that. At least, Sherlock thought there might be. But he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. “Is that medical advice?”

“Laughter is the best medicine,” John’s lips were at his ear, then wrapped around his earlobe, sucking, nipping, the scrape of teeth drawing a low moan from him. “What do you want?”

“Everything.”

John groaned, his forehead dropping against Sherlock’s shoulder, his hands remarkably gentle as they swept across exposed skin.

“No?” Sherlock asked weakly.

But John’s mouth skated across the side of his neck and when his eyes came into view, they were a deep, dark navy and flashing with hunger. “That’s not… Not exactly what I meant,” John rumbled.

Sherlock didn’t care. It was exactly what he’d meant. And he decided to prove it, starting by tasting every bit of skin he could find. And it was exquisite. John Watson was delicious. And apparently the base of his neck was rather sensitive, because when Sherlock sucked there, John gave a small cry and bucked against him. And he shivered when Sherlock’s fingers traced the elastic waistband at the small of his back, and he groaned when Sherlock palmed his arse. And when Sherlock put his lips to John’s ear and whispered, “How about you fuck me, then.” John Watson’s snogged Sherlock senseless.

“I’m not going to…” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s for a moment as they both caught some much-needed air. “At least not… Not on the couch.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and ghosted across Sherlock’s as well.

“Where then?” Sherlock tried to chase his mouth, but John seemed insistent on breathing. Boring.

“You have a bed around here?” John asked with amusement.

“No,” Sherlock answered wryly as he ran his knuckles down the knobs of John’s spine. “I hang from the ceiling like a proper vampire.”

“Pity,” John sighed, straightening. Pushing to stand, rather uncomfortably, and shaking his head. “Guess I’ll just have to go home.”

Sherlock lurched up from the sofa, crowding into John’s personal space, and backing him toward the kitchen. “Don’t you dare.”

And that’s how Sherlock found himself stripped naked and spread out on his bed with a golden, hungry, tormenting John Watson working him open and deliberately taking his time about it. “What’s the worst joke you know, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed. It was too much. Just the slow circular motion of John’s finger, the pressure too light, the firm hand on his hip, the teasing kisses to his knee. “Hardly the time, John,” he groaned finally.

John nipped the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. “Indulge me.”

There was no way he couldn’t, not when John dropped his voice low like that. Sherlock whined as he tried to recall a stupid joke. Not really something he’d devoted memory space to either. Who did? “Ah,” Sherlock squirmed. “What… What’s brown and sticky?” He sucked in a sharp breath as John’s finger pushed in, just to the first knuckle, just enough to tease. Oh, God. More.

John quirked a brow, his wry smile signifying that he was well aware of where his hand was. “I don’t know, Sherlock. What is brown and sticky?” He punctuated his words with gentle thrusts of his finger.

“Oh God.” It wasn’t a whimper. Sherlock didn’t whimper. He took a moment to collect his voice, but it was so damn difficult with John distracting him. “A stick.” John chuckled, his lips drawing back into a smile even as he pressed light kisses to Sherlock’s belly, his flank, sweeping his tongue into his bellybutton, and slowly, too slowly, pressing his finger deeper. “You… Your turn,” Sherlock whispered.

“Hm?” John was sucking on Sherlock’s hip. God that was going to leave a mark too. Good. Marks everywhere. Proof.

“Bad joke.” Sherlock tried to chase John’s hand, but he was rather expertly pinned in place. “Stupid… Worst… You go.”

“Oh,” John propped himself up on his elbow, his free hand under his chin, looking lazy and relaxed and wholly uninterested in the progression of his hand, of the two fingers that now pressed against Sherlock’s hole, of how mussed his hair was, of his kiss swollen lips. And it was infuriating. “Worst one I know?”

Sherlock nodded then barely caught the moan that threatened the back of his throat as John’s fingers twisted and pressed. John definitely noticed, but feigned innocence, blinking with a guileless expression that made Sherlock’s chest squeeze. “Worst,” he begged.

“What do you call a deer with no eyes?”

Sherlock stared at the long blond lashes, at John’s tongue as it rested against his lower lip and shook his head, clenching his fingers in the sheets.

“No-eyed-deer.” John grinned and giggled.

And it was ridiculous and silly and Sherlock felt himself start to laugh out John’s name only to have it drawn into a long sigh of vowels as both fingers pressed inside. And Sherlock sucked in a breath only to have it leave in a relaxed series of chuckles. John was right. This was better. This was better than anything.

“Hey Sherlock,” John had returned to nuzzling his way across Sherlock’s abdomen. “What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?”

Sherlock was panting, caught between laughing and moaning and sighing and wanting more and needing friction. “You… Cannot… John,” he complained in a high whine.

“Still no-eyed-deer.” Sherlock’s groan turned into a cry as John licked a long stripe up from the base of his cock. “Good God, look at you,” John whispered, shifting to pump his fingers with a sure rhythm, mouthing his way up Sherlock’s chest. “Just gorgeous.”

“You have…” Sherlock swallowed heavily and ran his palms greedily across John’s shoulders and back as they came within reach again. “Rather dexterous hands.”

“Mmn,” John hummed against Sherlock’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip. “And a rather extensive knowledge of anatomy.”

“Why would…” Sherlock gave a shout and his spine bowed reflexively off the bed as John pressed unerringly against his prostate. “Fuck,” he hissed.

John grinned. “Fucking stunning.”

“Please,” Sherlock whined. “You are going to kill me.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe? More than likely, given the look in John’s eyes. This time Sherlock did whimper. “John, please. Please!” The sound that came from deep in John’s chest could only be described as a growl. And John stilled, his head bowed. And again, Sherlock worried he’d done something wrong. “John?”

John lifted his head and heaved a breath, blinking at Sherlock for a moment. “Alright,” he said finally, and Sherlock shuddered at the gravel of it. He slowly started to ease his fingers out, his free hand groping for the condom. “What’s the filthiest joke you know?”

Sherlock let out the pent up breath he’d been holding. “John,” he complained, eyes going wide as John tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth.

“Go on.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, watching the progress of the condom, the extra lube John added. “I…”

“You must know at least one,” John settled himself back over Sherlock.

“There’s one really bad one,” Sherlock shifted his hips, bucking up against John. “Called The [Aristocrats](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=the+aristocrats).”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John rasped. “If you ever, EVER recite that monstrosity in our bed, I will wash your mouth out with soap.”

Sherlock all but pouted. “There are better things to do with my mouth.”

John groaned, “This is what I get, isn’t it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock pressed up to get his lips on John’s neck again. “You go.”

“What,” John tilted his head, giving better access even as he took himself in hand to line up. “Did the leper say to the prostitute?”

Sherlock’s breath was hot against John’s throat. “I dunno. What?”

John grit his teeth for a moment in an act of self restraint then pushed up on his free hand to gaze down at Sherlock. “Keep the tip.”

“Oh God!” Sherlock moaned as John slid more than just the tip inside of him. Not enough. He reached up, looping his arm around John’s neck, his fingers digging into John’s golden hair, and dragged those mirthful lips down to his own. It wasn’t a teasing kiss, it was demanding, fierce, and messy. And at any other time with any other person, Sherlock may have been self-conscious at the sounds they were making, and the noises coming from his throat, but he wasn’t. He wrapped his legs around John’s back, pulling him closer, rocking up into the lazy rhythm John was setting.

John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, letting his weight drop onto his forearms, running his fingers through dark curls. It wasn’t going to be slow for much longer. He wasn’t going to be in control for much longer. And from the look of it, neither was Sherlock. “Fucking brilliant,” he tried to brand the message into Sherlock’s skin. “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re perfect.”

Sherlock’s voice was wrecked, a litany of John’s name spilling out of him between moans and pants and sweat and the rocking of his hips. And the low noises cut off into a cry as John wrapped a hand around his straining erection, pulling in time with the quickening snap of his hips. “Oh God, John!”

“Come on,” John growled, mouthing at the sweat glistening on Sherlock’s neck. “You’re so close. Just let go, you beautiful fucking creature.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It could have been the way John rolled his hips, it could have been the slight hitch in Sherlock’s ankles where they pressed into the small of John’s back, it could have been the unusual twisting motion that John managed with his hand as it passed over the head of his cock, it could have been the scrape of teeth against his neck. It was probably all of them. And Sherlock’s vision greyed until he was forced to close his eyes against the flickering spots, and his spine bowed, and he shouted something sharp and loud.

When he regained his senses, John was a pleasantly heavy weight, his fingers stroking Sherlock’s chest and flank, his face nuzzling into the sweat soaked curls at his temple. “Alright?”

Sherlock hummed and nodded.

John disappeared and reappeared, wiping soft fabric across Sherlock’s abdomen before released a heavy breath, flopping onto his back with a self-satisfied groan. “God, Sherlock, that was magnificent.”

Sherlock rumbled something of an approving noise, easing his forearm from his face to blink at John with a rather dopey smile on his face. “Remind me to write thank you letters to Netter and Gray.”

John snorted. “And you said I don’t study enough.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I would never say something so spuriously inaccurate.”

John giggled. “Prat.”

“Slanderer,” Sherlock laughed. “Fine. I rescind whatever erroneous comment I may have made. You are a testament to your future profession. And should it be required, I will happily provide recommendation.”

“Dear Sirs, John Watson has an excellent knowledge of anatomy. Why, just the other day he fucked me senseless.” John clutched his stomach as his giggles went high-pitched and loud.

“I do not sound like that.”

John managed to reign in some of the snickering. “If I were studying philosophy, would you have to write a ‘To Hume’ letter?”

“John, stop!”

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“What’s long, hard, and has cum in it?”

“I swear to you, John Watson, if you say it’s me…”

“You?” John giggled and raised a both his eyebrows. “It’s a cucumber. Jesus you have a filthy mind.”

“John!” Sherlock chortled, giving him a shove that stopped just shy of knocking him out of the bed.

John latched on to Sherlock’s arm, braced himself at the last moment, and reversed directions, rolling back atop the taller man. “None of that now.” He grinned and tucked his nose against the back of Sherlock’s ear, snuffling into the skin until Sherlock was giggling helplessly.

“John… John!” Sherlock flailed, trying to throw John off through his laughter.

But John Watson was like an unmovable force when he wanted to be. He wouldn’t be changed or displaced without his consent and to try was a futile endeavor. And Sherlock sighed in relief as John shifted, bumping his nose under Sherlock’s just once before kissing him with lazy intent. “You are an absolute wonder,” he breathed against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hand through the hair at the nape of John’s neck, running his fingers against the flaxen grain. John let out a sound much like a purr and dropped his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing his face back and forth against whatever skin he could find. “Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

John huffed against his collarbone. “Where did that question come from?”

Sherlock shrugged against John’s weight. “Who knows.”

“Mmn,” John hummed. “Always. My grandfather… Well. Yes. You?”

“Never wanted to be a doctor, no,” Sherlock murmured.

John chuckled, drawing back to look Sherlock in the eye. “Not that, you berk. When you were little. What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“When I was little?” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled for a moment. “A pirate.”

A smile bloomed slowly and easily across John’s face. “A pirate, huh?” When Sherlock nodded, he caught the mischievous glint in John’s eyes. “Do you know, Sherlock, what a pirate’s favorite letter is?”

Sherlock groaned. “John, no.”

“Ah, c’mon, Sherlock. You could at least guess. There’s a one in twenty-six chance that you get it right without even thinking.”

“Neither of us are wearing pants, John,” Sherlock complained.

John raised a brow, his smile never faltering. “I fail to see how pants would give you better odds.”

Sherlock tried to give him a stern look, but it failed and the corners of his mouth twitched. “I suspect you’re going to say the letter R.”

“Aye, you may think it be arr,” John affected the worst pirate accent possible. “But a pirate’s first love always be the sea.”

Sherlock managed to keep a straight face for as long as it took John to lick his lips and grin again. Then they both dissolved into a fit of giggles.


	18. It's Not the Falling, It's the Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this drabble is from a little while ago, but I didn't want to put it up until the 3 parts of absurdly bad humor had been completed. I actually texted my man frand the humerus joke the other day... Lord help me.
> 
> Anyway. This is another installment of "Fleur is a terrible influence and keeps sending me prompts and I keep writing them what the hell is wrong with me." Original prompt from femdenmark and funkdracula:
> 
> "Important otp thing to consider: who rocks the ferris wheel seat"  
> "even more important: which one is terrified and crying and clinging to the other to try and get them to stop"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Post Here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/118633949603/fleurdelis221b-funkdracula-femdenmark

John didn’t know that Sherlock was afraid of heights. The idea had never really crossed his mind. Sure, how many times had he chased after Sherlock as the idiot actually leapt from one rooftop to another? And there was that thing that neither of them would ever discuss that involved rooftops and heights. So yeah, carnivals were odd places with shoddy looking rides, and rickety seats, and there might be screws loose in places that were dangerous. But didn’t that really just describe their lives together anyway?

And John wasn’t that much of an idiot to know that they probably had more efficient ways to get a good view of the park than to ride the ferris wheel. And it wasn’t lost on John that Sherlock had been researching carnivals by watching really rather terrible American 80′s movies that featured them. And maybe John had let Sherlock watch the entirety of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off without mentioning that he was well aware the film had nothing to do with carnivals. And in return, he’d bought Sherlock’s story that they should take a ride on the ferris wheel. The odd, mini London-Eye. To get a better view. So Sherlock could map the park in his mind. So John could relax for the 45 minute loop.

John was never really one for relaxing. And while he’d never shoot a wall out of boredom, perhaps his more mischievous moments of youth bubbled to the surface as they nearly crested the top and John threw his weight about. The carriage rocked violently, and John grinned savagely, and Sherlock sprawled backwards into the corner, bracing himself in the small space.

John giggled and rocked the carriage again, the slight thrill elating him. “John,” Sherlock hissed.

“Yeah?” John grinned, throwing his weight, letting out an almost inaudible “wheee,” as the carriage tipped forward, opening to the drop below.

“John, please.”

John turned, his smile fading as he took in the awkward position Sherlock had contorted into. One foot splayed forward against the footboard, both arms bracing on either side of the seat. John tamped down on his smile, mostly, and narrowed his eyes. “Sherlock?”

“It may come as a shock to you to know this, but ferris wheels breakdown every day. Larger companies, even Disney, have fallen victim to faulty mechanics and are forced to evacuate rides almost annually. Many small children are injured or killed falling from heights even as low as 8 feet from wheels this size. In 2003, a wheel collapsed in New Delhi and a dozen people were killed and many more injured. In 2007, a 17 year old was trapped under a car when she didn’t exit on time. In 2010, three teenagers were hurt when their fucking carriage fell off the wheel because they were rocking it. John, for the love of god. Please. Stop rocking the carriage.”

John’s smile wiped from his face over the course of words pouring from Sherlock’s mouth. He stopped immediately. “Alright.” He took his hands off the bar and settled back against the seat. “Okay.” He watched Sherlock, the way he didn’t move. The way he stayed plastered against the seat corner. The way he refused to look down, or even out over the grounds. “Sherlock?”

“I don’t like heights.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile at the admission as much as the blunt, blurting of facts. “Right.” He nodded slowly. John tilted his head. “Sherlock,” he held out a hand. “C’mere.”

“Don’t be silly, John.” Sherlock drew back. “These carriages couldn’t possibly balance our combined weight in a single corner.”

John sighed, grinned, and crooked his fingers. “Come here, Sherlock.” He leaned forward and caught Sherlock’s wrist, tugging firmly, and unwedging Sherlock from the corner. Sherlock let out a squeak, flailing, as John manhandled him across the carriage. John hummed pleasantly as he settled his partner’s back against his chest, firmly held between his legs, arms wrapped around the lanky git. “There.”

“John.”

He tucked his chin between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, letting his palms flatten across Sherlock’s chest and waist. “See.” John turned his face, to nose against dark curls. “It’s fine.”

“There’s still a 0.052% chance that the ride is faulty,” Sherlock muttered.

“Of course,” John whispered, pressing a light kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“Get a room!”

John chuckled as the carriage behind theirs rocked violently and an empty soda can was lobbed out the side. “It’s fine, Sherlock. You’re fine.”


	19. Mansplaining to Your Little Girlfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also a drabble from a while back that I forgot to put up. No one pushed it on me, I just saw it and spewed out this really short short. Honestly a ficlet. 
> 
> Prompt came from gayortrash:
> 
> "canon sherlock is already so pissed when someone doesn’t take him seriously, now imagine fem!sherlock reacting to sexist people trying to play down her skills because she’s a woman. imagine fem!john standing next to her ready to punch someone in the face. imagine angry feminist femlock"
> 
> I know there's always flexibility in the names if you go femlock. I went with Sherlock for Sherlock and Johnnie for John... And Sherlock calls her John. Because. I do what I want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/private/115967150418/tumblr_nmhbtlX7mj1tm4vgq

Johnnie clenched her fist and set her jaw, “I’m sorry?” One of her eyebrows went up sharply as Sherlock swirled away in a swish of wool coat and toss of dark, unruly curls.

“I was just explaining to your little girlfriend here about the statistics behind the DNA matching and the one in seven thousand fallacy, I don’t know why I bother,” Anderson sneered. “It’s complicated.”

“Did you just refer to Sherlock as little?” the corner of Johnnie’s mouth twitched in a dark approximation of a smile. “She’s six foot if an inch." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock arguing animatedly with Lestrade; he looked more perplexed as the hand gestures grew more extravagant.

"Yes, yes. That’s not the point. I don’t want to tax her attention with the mathematics behind it.” Anderson waved his hand absently. “Don’t you worry your pretty, little head about it.” He patted the top of Johnnie’s head and plastered a patronizing smile on his face. “Leave it to the professionals.”

“Excuse me?” Johnnie bristled, pulling herself up to her fully five foot six inches and locking her shoulders into a rigid line.

“I said…”

“I heard you,” Johnnie hissed. “I was just giving you the opportunity to retract your head from your arse before it becomes permanently lodged there.”

“What did you say?” Anderson’s voice went higher in pitch.

Johnnie leaned forward, tilting her chin up and blinking pointedly. “Touch me again. I dare you.”

Anderson frowned, tilted his head, then burst out laughing. “You’re cute when you’re angry.” He patted her hip with his empty hand and flashed her a grin. “Run along now.”

Johnnie sniffed and her half smirk stretched into a curled lip that wasn’t a smile. Before he could blink, Johnnie’s right hand grabbed his wrist, removing the hand from her hip. She twisted it sharply and brought the blunt of her left forearm down onto the trapped joint. Then in a single, smooth motion, she thrust the heel of her hand into his sternum while sweeping his legs from beneath him.

Anderson let out a loud squawk as he hit the pavement in a clatter and flailing ball of limbs. Johnnie squatted down next to him and glared. “If you ever touch me again, you lose your hand. If you ever talk down to my partner again, I’ll let her verbally eviscerate you, film it with my phone, and post it to youtube. Then I will break your jaw.” She raised a brow. “Am I clear?”

It wasn’t really a question. Anderson gaped at her.

“John?”

She looked up and caught Sherlock watching. “Sherlock. Alright?”

“We’re done here.” Sherlock gave a nod to Lestrade. “Come along.”

Johnnie saw the flick of a smile before she turned and headed for the main road. She licked her lips and grinned at Anderson. “Now, I’m going to go home and have some fantastic, angry sex with that gorgeous genius. Fuck you very much.” Then she stood, turned on her heel and stalked after Sherlock.

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and watched Anderson struggle to his feet. “Well?”

Anderson winced. “Did you see what that little bitch-”

“Oi!” Lestrade barked. “Those two are dangerous and a bit mental, but they are not bitches. Do you understand me?”

Anderson huffed.

“Next time you upset the shorter one, I’m going to walk away, and let her beat the ever-loving shit out of you. You do realize she ex-military, yeah?”

Anderson turned to look at the space Johnnie had vacated. “Really? …”


	20. Thank You, Dear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of Fleur's prompts:
> 
> “i had to be ur fake boyfriend/girlfriend bc some creep was hitting on you and it was making you uncomfortable and now i have busted knuckles and a cut lip but hey are u okay” au
> 
> And she subsequently tagged me, because now it's a knee-jerk response that I've gone and fic'd it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Post: http://fleurdelis221b.tumblr.com/post/120046541153/theonlypurpletardis-fleurdelis221b-i-had-to

John sighed and rolled the base of the pint glass around on the table, watching the amber liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. Being stood-up was rubbish. Being stood-up for a breakup was worse. He glared at his mobile where it sat, mockingly silent after that single text. The damn thing was lucky he couldn’t afford a replacement, because he’d damn near smashed it to pieces a few minutes earlier. He took an overly large swig of his beer and rubbed his empty hand firmly across his forehead and eyes. Fucking week from hell.

He thought about texting Harry. But given his current mood, mixing his sister up with his three pints deep temper was a bad plan. He really wanted to punch something. Hard. With feeling.

“No.”

John’s ears perked at the force behind the single word. Deep and rumbling with enough disdain to cut steel. He pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his eyes closed. The pub wasn’t exactly overcrowded, but it was busy enough for the night. And he’d picked a small table where he could see the whole room, where he could see the door, where he could have his back to the wall so when his date finally showed… Well, that wasn’t going to happen now. Nothing like drinking alone at a table for two, so the whole sodding pub could read your shame like a fucking billboard.

“Perhaps my personal lexicon out strips your grasp of the English language. Allow me to put it plainly. Fuck off.”

John glanced up and wrinkled his nose, seeking the source of the rather posh sounding, angry words. He scanned the crowd until his eyes settled on a tall, lithe bloke, mop of dark curls capping an elegant spine with his back to John’s table. Hello, John thought rather absently. The man beside him flashed something other than a genuine smile and leaned into the brunette’s personal space.

“Come on now, Sherlock. That’s not what you said last time.”

Well that was rude. John finished his beer and sniffed, watching the pair a bit too closely. The brunette’s head—Sherlock, wasn’t that what the arsehole had called him—snapped around, his profile becoming clear as a single eyebrow shot up and his lip curled into a snarl.

“The fact your pea brain manages to send the signals that keep your respiratory system in function is a marvel. That you cannot comprehend the words ‘No’ and ‘Fuck’ and ‘Off’ is a curiosity that no longer holds my interest. I am waiting on someone. Now piss off.”

John struggled not to laugh. He couldn’t laugh. Not just while eavesdropping on some random conversation, halfway down the road to drunk town, and moping over a breakup that he’d seen coming a mile away.

“Oh, Sherlock. Who’d be meeting a freak like you?”

Oh. John clenched his jaw. That was more than rude. John didn’t miss the slightly hurt expression that crossed Sherlock’s beautiful face, nor did he miss the bodily recoil at the malicious words. But that wasn’t why John left his table. Words were words, but the hand that wrapped around Sherlock’s upper arm was clearly unwelcome and purposely cruel. John slipped from his seat and wove his way quickly to the bar, procuring two fresh pints. He took one in each hand and headed towards the pair, barely avoiding a knock as Sherlock tore his arm from arsehole’s grasp.

“Hey!” John said cheerily, blatantly ignoring the tension between the pair of men. “Sherlock! Sorry I’m late. The tube at this hour. Mental.” He handed one of the pints to the rather stunned looking Sherlock and gave him a cheeky grin as he very, very lightly, and what he hoped was reassuringly, set his now free hand against Sherlock’s upper back.

“Uh, thanks,” Sherlock mumbled after a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly at John’s sudden appearance, a fine line appearing between his brows.

John took a sip of his pint, angling his body toward the arsehole that seemed intent on hovering a bit too close for his taste. John raised both eyebrows and blinked up at the man; must have been nearly a head taller than himself. “Who’s your friend?” he asked innocently.

Sherlock’s face pinched into an expression of distaste. “Not really ‘friend’ per say.”

The arsehole scoffed angrily. John removed his hand from Sherlock’s back and extended it. “John Watson.”

His hand was left hovering as the man glared first at John then at Sherlock then back at John’s hand. The glare turned into a sneer, “What? Is he paying you or something?”

“Oi!” John frowned, withdrawing his hand and balling it into a fist at his side.

“You think some wanker handing you a pint makes a difference, Sherlock? It fucking doesn’t.” The man poked a finger into Sherlock’s sternum. “And when you come crawling back, I’m going to make you beg. I bet you look even better on your knees with a dick shoved into your mouth.” He shot one more disdainful leer at John. “He’s not even that good.”

John felt his rage reach boiling point. And all of his twitchy anger settled into a calm fury. Sure, he’d been having a bad week, a horrible day, a shitty evening. But that was the last straw. He straightened his spine, pulled back his shoulders and stared menacingly at the arsehole. “That is enough.”

“Enough? Really?” The man gave a haughty laugh. “Sherlock, where did you even find this guy?”

John felt his mouth pull back into a poor impression of a smile. He tilted his chin up and stepped in front of Sherlock. “Might I have a word?”

“A word?” The man gave him an amused smile. “By all means.”

John wrinkled his nose in what might have been an apologetic expression. It wasn’t. “Outside? If we might? I find it so hard to have a good heart to heart when there are so many other conversations going on.”

“Absolutely,” the arsehole grinned, clearly happy to take the conversation outside. Also, clearly oblivious to John’s mindset.

“After you,” John gestured in the most polite manner he could muster. Then he turned towards Sherlock. “Can you hold this for a moment?” He handed over his pint, flashed a dangerously amused smile, winked, and pushed his way out the door and onto the side street.

Sherlock blinked at John’s back as he headed out into the night. “John?” Maybe he was slowing down, because it took a moment for his brain to catch up with the exchange and the implication. And before the door had closed, he set both pints down on the nearest surface and dashed after them. “John!”

John crossed his arms over his chest and somehow managed to stare down his nose at the taller man. “So.”

The arsehole grinned, “Aren’t you just a bit big for your britches.”

John raised a brow. “Aren’t you just unnecessarily rude.”

“John!” Sherlock shook beer off of his hand as he made it to John’s side. “It’s… Um… It’s not worth it. I’m not worth…” The corners of John’s eyes tightened as he looked up at Sherlock. It was a hurt expression. “He’s not worth it,” Sherlock managed to choke out. “Let’s just go.”

John sighed and his shoulders dropped slightly. Whatever about his own temper, he didn’t need to cause any extra trouble for someone else. He was about to nod, about to agree to a descalation, about to better judgment prevail. But then John found himself acquainted with, what most people would call, a sucker punch.

The man’s right fist connected with the left corner of John’s mouth and he was spun sideways. In the space created, the man lunged forward and shoved Sherlock into the brick wall, the impact jarring up his spine. “Just go, Sherlock?” A palm splayed across Sherlock’s sternum and thrust him back against the building again, hard enough that he flinched.

John caught himself on one knee and a palm to the pavement. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears and tongued at the split in his lip. Mother fucker. What kind of cheep, arse-faced, sonuvabitch would sucker punch a stranger? Then he heard the soft huff of breath as Sherlock hit the wall, and John saw red. He stood, took one look at the hand on Sherlock’s chest, the ugly expression on the man’s face, and was in motion.

He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted, torqueing the hand and arm back far enough to force the man to turn. And since he turned with his fist flying, John ducked under the sloppy punch and delivered a left hook to the man’s jaw. And John Watson did not pull punches. The blow knocked the arsehole, well, onto his stupid arse and flat onto the pavement in a daze. John glowered at him, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. “Scarper or I’ll beat the ever loving tar out of you.”

And he did. The man scrambled, not fully finding his feet, stumbling toward the main road unsteadily.

The sound of skin on skin had erupted so close to Sherlock’s face that for a fraction of a second, he though he’d been hit. But when he opened his eyes, the space in front of him was clear, and no one was pinning him to the wall. He sucked in a sharp breath and blinked.

“Hey?” Where John’s face had been hard lines and dark eyes, it softened in an instant as he turned toward Sherlock. “You alright?”

Sherlock blinked. He furrowed his brow and blinked again. “Why did you do that?”

A curious smile crept onto John’s face. “Why did I sock a guy that threw the first punch?”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. “No, no. Before that. Why… Why did you…?”

Oh. “Oh,” John shrugged. “I was itching for a fight. He was… Giving you a hard time. Unbearably rude.”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “You don’t even know me. I could be unbearably rude.”

“Are you?” John cocked his head to the side, the smile growing.

“Most of the time.”

“So am I.” John huffed out a laugh. “John Watson,” he held out his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock shook his hand. “Is your…” he made a vague gesture with his hand. “Face ok?”

“Is my face ok?” John started laughing in earnest. “Yeah, I think my face is ok.” He grinned at the odd expression Sherlock wore while eyeing him. “Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. It’d take a much better jab than that to do any real damage. You sure you’re alright?”

Sherlock hummed what was probably an affirmative. “I’m just sad I didn’t see you knock him on his arse.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, you’re fine. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” He tugged the pub door open, pausing when Sherlock hesitated.

“Why?”

John shrugged. “Why not? My date bailed on me. Your… whatever the fuck he was has scarpered. No sense in drinking alone.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve an odd manner for a recently single, surgical trainee, with a tight budget.”

John’s smile broadened as he stared at Sherlock. “Fair enough. Then you can buy the drinks.”

Sherlock cracked a smile. “Very odd.”

John laughed. He laughed so hard he started to giggle, and it was so silly that Sherlock had to laugh as well, a deep and rumbling thing. And when John finally caught his breath he grinned. “G’wan now. I’ll have a beer.”

“Yes, Dear,” Sherlock chuckled.

And John answered in kind. “Thank you, Dear.”


	21. So They All Rolled Over And One Fell Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this prompt comes from ruingaraf (which I actually sent to Fleur... then took on myself... for reasons):
> 
> alternative bedsharing fics  
> * obviously the situation demands this and we can deal with it maturely because we’re adults  
> * please don’t sleep in your underwear, you’re making this way weirder than it has to be  
> * I didn’t know you snored until a half hour ago but i’m staring at the ceiling fighting the urge to kick you  
> * would you please get comfortable and go the fuck to sleep already  
> * how many times do you get up to pee in the middle of the night, I think you should see a doctor about that  
> * you took all the blankets, I gave up and got another one  
> * ask me again if pigeons have feelings, I dare you
> 
> So I took it and rolled it all together (in a manner) to one big bedshare fic :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Post: http://fleurdelis221b.tumblr.com/post/120053911213/ewebie-ruingaraf-alternative-bedsharing-fics

John Watson had always thought himself to be a reasonable person. Perhaps that was his first mistake. Any logical process based on a faulty premise is certain to result in a flawed conclusion. Then again, it was quite possible reasonability was futile in the face of Sherlock Holmes. Now, he’d never been foolhardy enough to think himself a calm man, nor ignorant enough to pretend he didn’t have a temper. But sometimes…

Surely, the frivolous needs of transport were not concerns that Sherlock would deign to consider. And clearly, the considerations of mere mortals were not something that Sherlock would condescend to waste precious brain space on. And yet… Yet… At the moment, John Watson, knowingly pragmatic and reasonable John Watson, could not comprehend how Sherlock Holmes didn’t realize that chasing a case out to Portsmouth wouldn’t, at some point in time, require a place to kip. And while Sherlock could run on fumes and curiosity and pure egotistical arrogance, John Watson was only human. And at thirty-six hours awake, he’d reached his breaking point.

Or, rather, he thought he had. Apparently, John Watson’s breaking point wasn’t falling asleep loitering against a pillar, nor was it finding out that Sherlock certainly hadn’t booked them a room at a hotel or a B&B or a hostel or a bloody train car back to London. No. John Watson’s breaking point was right this moment, staring at the oversized, super king bed in the middle of this horrendously tacky room, at nearly half past arsehole o’clock as Sherlock droned on about something to do with migratory patterns of moths. That was the line. That was it.

Right. “Right.” John pinched the bridge of his nose and hunched his shoulders up around his ears. “Right. Sherlock?”

“But that doesn’t account for every trajectory to be ascertained by moonlight navigation and magnetic guidance.”

“Sherlock,” John said more firmly, pulling his head up and shoulders back. “Sherlock!” he barked.

“What?” Sherlock spun around to face him.

“What do you want to do?” John asked with a tired sigh.

“Do?” Sherlock’s face scrunched in confused irritation. “Do about what?”

John raised both brows and gestured with a single hand. “Bed.”

“Yes, John, that’s a bed,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Yeah. A bed. A. Bed. Sherlock, singular.” John tilted his head, willing Sherlock to understand without any further words. “Aaaand. There are two of us.”

Sherlock glanced at the bed and back at John. “It is a preposterously sized bed.”

John huffed out a laugh. “You know what? Fine. You’re right. You’re always right. It’s fecking huge.” John shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the desk chair. “We’re both adults. We’re both knackered.” He toed out of his shoes and dropped to a seat on the side of the bed, stooping to peel off his socks. “And I’m so bleeding tired that an earthquake wouldn’t wake me.” He tugged his jumper and shirt over his head and managed to send them nearly to the chair with his jacket. Nearly, but not quite.

Sherlock picked them up with his thumb and forefinger, shooting a rather annoyed glance at John. “Really, John.”

John couldn’t care. He really couldn’t. He twisted so that his collapse was face first onto the bed, and with what he suspected was his last ounce of energy, he pulled himself up near the pillows, turned his head away from the room and sighed. “Just turn off the light, will you?”

It sounded like Sherlock might have been clucking his tongue, muttering about inconveniences and delayed pace and what John was quite certain was the word “transport.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John mumbled into the pillow. “Just shut up and go to sleep.”

“Not tired.”

John pushed himself up on his elbows and shot a very skeptical, very dirty look at Sherlock. The look he received in return was that of a petulant child, a child that was pouting. John raised a brow. “I don’t care.”

Sherlock huffed.

“Sherlock,” John growled. “I am tired. I can barely see straight. If you don’t shut it, and get in this bed right sodding now, I will physically put you in bed. And I will make sure you are physically incapable of leaving. If you care about me, at all, you will just do this.”

The staring match that ensued lasted far less time than John expected it to. And in a moment, with a roll of the eyes and a muttered, “Fine,” Sherlock was whirling out of his scarf and coat. The suit jacket, the leather shoes, the belt, the socks, the shirt, the slacks… Wait, the slacks?

John’s brain caught up as Sherlock hooked his thumbs in the waist of his pants. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting into bed, John,” Sherlock said pointedly, with as much condescension as he could muster. “As you so insisted, and I sleep in the nude.”

“Leave your pants on, Sherlock.”

“But I don’t sleep with pants on.”

“You also don’t sleep, and we don’t share a bed, and we don’t live in Portsmouth, and I don’t stay awake for days on end. So don’t you start with me.” John punched the pillow he’d been sprawled upon for good measure. “Just get the fuck in bed.”

The sigh that came from Sherlock was one that John could only compare to royalty being asked to kowtow to peasants. But mercifully, there were no words. Sherlock shut off the last of the lights and climbed over John onto the far side of the bed. John grunted as Sherlock’s knee found the soft spot by his kidney, but for the sake of peace and sleep, he bit back the sharp reply on the tip of his tongue and shifted off of the blanket and sheet as Sherlock aggressively tugged them down and arranged them to his liking. Then it was quiet. It was dark and quiet and warm and John closed his eyes.

“Damn,” Sherlock muttered, and he was in motion again.

John buried his face in the pillow as the bathroom light clicked on and the vent whirred to life. “Bloody hell,” he hissed, waiting for Sherlock to finish his nightly ablutions. The toilet flushed, the taps turned on and off again, the door opened, the light went off. “Alright?” John grumbled.

“Hmm.” The sound was neither affirmative nor negative. Thankfully, Sherlock opted to clamber back up from the foot of the bed, sparing John’s kidneys another kick. Sherlock shifted, rolling in the sheet, fluffing his pillows, flipping from side to side, before he seemed to get comfortable. Then it was quiet. It was dark and quiet and warm and John closed his eyes again. Sleep. He just needed some sleep.

His eyes snapped open at the loud snuffle. The fuck? Then it happened again. And again. And again. “Sherlock,” John protested. The sound escalated into a comical snore and John clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw popped. “Sherlock, I know you don’t snore. Please, just stop.”

“But you won’t relax until I’m asleep. I’m feigning sleep.”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine.”

And it was quiet. And John risked closing his eyes.

“John?”

Oh dear God, Sherlock. “What?”

“I have to pee again.”

John rubbed his face back and forth across the pillow. “What?”

“The loo, John.”

John sighed. “Then go, yeah?”

Sherlock scrambled out of the bed and the light and vent were on and the door opened and closed and the toilet and the taps and light off and the door shut and Sherlock eased into the bed from his side this time.

“Sleep,” John’s voice rumbled like a threat.

Sherlock shifted again, back and forth, spreading limbs akimbo and then curling up on his side, huffing a few times before he found a comfortable position, in a ball. John would have been pleased if not for the fact that Sherlock’s comfortable position required every square inch of blanket and left John without a scrap of fabric against the chill of the night.

“Sherlock,” John whined. When he didn’t get an answer, he groaned, pushed himself out of the bed and stumbled to the closet. They always kept extra blankets in there. Sure enough, a whole second duvet. Jackpot. John tugged it out of the bag, wrapped it around himself until he was John sized burrito, crossed to the bed and fell face first onto the mattress. He could sleep like this. Warm and dark and quiet.

“John?”

“Mpfhff.”

“John.”

John shifted his head free of the cocoon. “What?”

“Do you ever wonder about animals?”

John pressed his eyes shut tightly. “What?”

“Animals, John. Do you ever wonder if pigeons have feelings?”

That was it. That was the line. That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. John Watson was no longer a rational or reasonable man. He flailed his arms free of his blanket and lunged. Normally, he’d be proud of himself for catching Sherlock off guard. Normally, he’d be more coordinated in his movements and the tumbling and grappling would have been over sooner. But normally, John Watson was not delirious tired, and normally he was not agitated by the sound of Sherlock’s voice, and normally he wouldn’t be this physically aggressive. But this was not normal. Not. Normal.

Somehow, John managed to get his hands fisted into the comforter that Sherlock had appropriated as his own, and with a forceful heave, he rolled Sherlock into the whole damn thing. John locked his arms and legs around the struggling pile of cotton and down, trapping Sherlock in a straightjacket of blanket. “John!” Sherlock complained, as he went still, realizing the futility of fighting any further.

“No,” John huffed against the mess of dark curls.

“Come on, John.”

“Nope,” John tightened his arms. “No.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Shhh,” John pressed his forehead into the padding over Sherlock’s shoulder, using it like a pillow.

“This isn’t entirely comfortable,” Sherlock lied.

“Yes it is,” John whispered. “It’s warm. It’s dark. It’s quiet,” he gave Sherlock a squeeze, his arms snug around him, pulling him back to spoon against John.

“I’m not a teddy bear, John.”

John dragged his face across the fluffy duvet between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Shhh.” He shifted incrementally. “Teddy bears don’t talk.” Warm and dark and quiet. And John closed his eyes. And Sherlock resigned himself to waiting, waiting until John was asleep and lax so he could free himself and exact revenge. But by the time John was out cold, so was Sherlock. And when they both woke, mid morning sun streaming through the curtains, they’d hardly moved from the small space they’d occupied on that ridiculously sized bed.


	22. I Like You a Latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to a full out "Job AUs" list from cup-of-hot-coffee (I know... OF COURSE I went for the coffee shop list):  
>  **Coffee Shop AU**  
>  * I write a bad pick up line on your cup every time I’m your barista’ AU  
> * ‘You’re really short and cute and you buy a cup of black coffee every morning but you make weird faces as you sip it and you never finish your drink are you trying to look mature or something’ AU  
> * ‘Should I be concerned about how much caffeine you’re taking in’ AU
> 
> And some implied prompting from Fleur in which she said: any really but especially ‘I can feel you silently judging me as you ring up my purchases I swear I’m not using these for their intended purpose’ au I write a bad pick up line on your cup every time I’m your barista’ AU
> 
> So I said: I mean. There are things to consider. I can totally picture Sherlock writing horrible pick up lines on John’s takeaway cup, and one time John compliments his voice and so he starts writing “Jawn” on the cups, and suggesting he switch to decaf so it doesn’t stunt his growth, but you know how it is with medschool exams. Doctors practically use IV caffeine at various points in time. I see no problem with these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/120690507308/job-aus

John rubbed a hand roughly across his face as he tugged the door open, the soft tinkle of the bell announcing his presence. The smell of the shop did wonders to his level of alertness and by the time he’d reached the counter, his eyes were open and seeing again. He cleared his throat as he dug for his wallet. “Large, triple shot Americano, please.”

There was a rumble of agreement from behind the counter followed by a cited price. And John handed over what might have been an exorbitant amount of cash. Might have been, if not for the lack of sleep, if not for the ridiculously early hour, and not for the unending theater list on for the day, or the non-existent spare time to stop at a bleeding Tesco to get coffee for the press at home. It was a lot of if’s and at the moment, John just really really needed to be able to keep his feet for another twelve hours.

“Name?”

“Hm?” he queried automatically, shoving the change into his pocket.

“Name?”

John blinked at the face behind the counter, the dark hair and pale skin creating a sharp contrast that was somehow comforting to his blurred vision. “My name?”

The mouth in the face twisted at the corner into an obscene, little smirk as one of the eyebrows rose. “Yes,” the single syllable was drawn out, long and lazy. John blinked again as if the request was confusing. It was confusing. Did people need his name to make a cup of coffee? “New company policy,” the man spoke at John’s silence. “Customers give their name, it’s written on these charming disposable cups to ensure you receive your correct order.”

John frowned and glanced around the empty shop. It wasn’t as though many people would try to rob his order at five in the morning. In fact, there was no one else there.

As if reading his mind, the man continued. “Quite effective during the morning rush. It also personalizes a crudely corporate chain of shops, leaving a customer feeling valued and attended. And, as I said, it is policy. Employees have been punished for less, so I do insist that you allow me to value and attend you this morning…”

John blinked again before he realized that the man had paused to allow him to fill in the missing name. It was way too early for this. “John,” he mumbled and scratched at the back of his head.

“John,” the man repeated. “Alright then.” And he disappeared behind the massive machine, returning moments later, it could have been five minutes for all John suspected he’d fallen asleep standing up again, to hand John his coffee, in a white paper cup, with his name scrawled on the side in large, looping, black script.

“Thanks.” John licked his lips and quickly added far more than a splash of milk. He snapped a lid on and gave a quick nod on his way to the door, sipping the drink before it was possibly cool enough. He winced as the liquid burned against his tongue and the dark, bitter flavor followed in the wake of the heat. He shouldered his way through the door and knew he’d have just enough time to let the caffeine from this soak in before he was scrubbed. Good. The coffee was pretty good too.

~o~

A week later, he found himself back at the coffee shop. Thank God this one opened as early as it did. Why did he have to start his workday before anyone else was up to make coffee? Criminal. He pushed the door open; a vaguely familiar face appeared behind the counter and an eyebrow went up in curiosity.

“Morning,” John said easily. Half five was a lie-in, and it appealed to his morning habits provided he’d been in bed before midnight the previous evening. When sleeping was rare, that’s when he was rough. And it built up quickly. But two whole days off worked wonders. And to reward himself for not working for two whole days, he was getting a rather nice coffee… On his way in to work for two whole days. “Can I get a…”

“Triple shot Americano?” the man finished for him.

John only realized his mouth was open when the man’s gaze flicked to it momentarily. “Uh, yeah.” He furrowed his brow. “How did you…”

The man smiled. It was a lazy type of smile, but one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We don’t get as many customers as you’d expect at this hour.”

“Oh.”

“And you have a memorable face,” the man finished smoothly.

John blinked. “My face?” He most certainly did not have a memorable face. It was something he was reassured of almost constantly. Short. Plain. Dishwater blond hair. Memorable was not a word he’d ever heard in relation to his appearance. Then he laughed in spite of himself.

“John,” the man complained, a touch of scorn in his voice. “You are not ordinary.”

John scrunched his face. The mind reading was getting weird. “Uh, right.”

“Valued and attended,” the man murmured absently.

He cleared his throat as he realized the man had remembered his name to go along with his order. “Thanks.”

The man rolled his eyes at the disbelieving look on John’s face and disappeared to prepare the coffee. “Incidentally,” the man’s voice carried over the sound of the espresso machine whirring to life. “I’m surprised a surgeon is able to consume such a volume of caffeine without his hands shaking.”

“I…” John felt his face color. What? “Wh-Did I? I don’t remember mentioning that I was a surgeon,” he said quietly.

The man shifted, his head craning around the side of the machine as a wry smile stretched across his face. “Please, a man as neat and put together as yourself, chronically exhausted, but early riser, clean hands, trimmed nails, steady.” The man raised a brow. “And your hospital ID clipped to your breast pocket with an open jacket this morning.”

“Oh,” John snapped his hand up to the ID. He’d forgotten it was there at all. “Oh, right.” John blushed again. “Espresso drinks leave me steady. Filter coffee makes me jittery.”

“Interesting,” the man’s brows quirked and John got the impression that he wasn’t being facetious. “Well, John Watson,” he purred. “Enjoy your drink.”

John took the paper cup, added milk, snapped on the lid and smiled. “Thanks.” He took a sip and winced then smiled again. “I’ll be back.” And he headed into work. The commute wasn’t a long one, and in less than half an hour, he slid into his seat at the table, preparing for the dry round. At least he was nearly done with the drink.

“Did you have a cute barista this morning then?”

John’s eyes snapped up at Mike. “What?”

“Your barista, the person that makes the coffee at the shop. Cute?” Mike had a dopy grin on his face.

“I know what a barista is, Mike. Ta.”

“But… Cute?” Mike waggled his brows as John’s face colored.

“Uh… why?”

Mike gestured at the cup. “That.”

John frowned. “A cup?”

Mike snickered and reached over the table to turn it so John could see the other side. So he could read the loopy, black script.  ** _Jawn. Kiss me if I’m wrong, but dinosaurs still exist._**

“Oh my God!” John felt his face turn a dark shade of red.

~o~

He was on his way home. Finally, finally on his way home. And he had about a full day’s worth of paperwork and study and research and bullshit and he could barely see straight. And it was only three in the afternoon, but he’d been awake since the morning before. And oh God, if he didn’t get that abstract written by tomorrow. He actually tripped over his own feet. Shit. Ok. Pull yourself together, Watson. He sighed and glanced around to get his bearings, realizing that he’d been heading home on complete autopilot. And he was only halfway surprised to be across from that coffee shop. Well. Coffee. It wouldn’t cure anything, but it might give him a fighting chance at staying awake.

He pushed the door open, listening to the bells chime and took a deep breath. Just the smell of strong coffee beans was enough to bring him round a bit. And he’d been regularly getting his coffee here in the mornings. And he was regularly receiving pickup lines on his cup. But that barista, the really attractive barista, the really attractive barista that kept hitting on him seemed to be the one opening the shop so…

“Middle of the day? This is new for you.”

John felt a tired smile touch his lips. Nevermind. Seems that barista was always here. “Yeah… No rest for the wicked.”

The smile he received in response was, quite possibly, very wicked. And the tips of his ears burned pink. “The usual, then, John?”

“Yeah.” He blinked. “No, wait.” He scratched at his scalp and held up five fingers. “Make it five?”

Both eyebrows went up. John only noted it, because it looked something like surprise and he was certain he’d not seen that expression on the barista’s face. “Five shots of espresso? In a large Americano?”

John nodded and propped his elbows on the counter, resting his forehead in his palm. “Please.”

When the grinder didn’t instantly whir to life, he glanced up to see the barista studying him. “Are you sure that’s wise, John?”

“Hm?” He blinked, wondering if the barista was this chatty with all of his customers. Wait… Why was he only just realizing he was the only customer in the shop? He was always the only customer in the shop? “Oh, yes. Please. Five.”

“You know,” the barista murmured. “Caffeine will stunt your growth.”

John giggled. Oh Lord, he was tired. “Think I’m done growing, mate,” he managed between chuckles.

“Sherlock,” the barista replied.

“Hm?” John glanced up again. Oh. Sherlock. That was his name. Right. Ok. “Sherlock.” He stuck out his hand. “John.”

“I know,” Sherlock purred. “So. Five shots?”

“Unless you know of a better way to deal with thirty hours awake.”

“Sleeping,” Sherlock offered with a grin.

John chuckled. “Ah, not allowed. Work.”

“Mmn,” Sherlock gave a knowing nod and started to make the drink.

John rested his head down on his forearms with a sigh, listening to the hum of the machines and drip of the espresso. Just a minute with his eyes closed. That was all he needed. Then he’d take his coffee and go home and finish that abstract…

“John?”

“Jawn.”

“John Watson?” Fingers rifled through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wake up, Jawn.”

“Mmnrph,” he pressed his eyes tightly shut. “Your voice is not the kind that encourages me to stop dreaming.” Shit. John practically cringed into a ball on the floor. “I’m up, I’m up.” He pulled his head up before straightening his spine and shifting his shoulders. “Sorry.”

Sherlock held the cup out to him. “There’s milk in it already.” And the lid was on. And the smile on Sherlock’s face was another one John hadn’t seen yet. “I still recommend sleep.”

“I wish,” John sighed, accepting the cup. “Sorry about…” he gestured at the counter.

“Not at all,” Sherlock winked.

John blushed. “Thanks. I’ll… Um…” He made another aimless gesture with his hand as he took a sip of the coffee. He winced, sighed, nodded, and turned to head home. “Thanks.”

He’d set the cup down to unlock the door to his flat and stooped to collect it, half-in and half-out of the door. And the script on the side caught his attention. **_Jawn,_** it said in the now familiar script. **_If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cutecumber._**

John snorted. The snort became a chuckle. Then a laugh. Then outright giggles. And he spent five minutes laughing before he could focus enough to start his work.

~o~

It was raining. Torrential. Floods. Rivers forming in the streets. Sewers overflowing. Cows floating away in the Thames… Or John was a bit predisposed to hyperbole. Then again, it was seriously coming down. He ducked into the shop, because it was halfway to his flat from the tube, and because it was still open, and because it was dry and warm and he was neither.

“We’re closing up, so make it quick.”

“Oh, sorry.” John tried to shake some of the water from his jacket and hair.

“John?” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Hi,” he gave a weak wave, dripping on the entry mat.

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. “You can stay. Awfully late in the day for you to be drinking coffee, isn’t it?”

John grinned and shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

Sherlock edged out from behind the counter and crossed his arms, looking out at the storm. “Ah.”

“Ah?” John was forced to tilt his head up to see Sherlock’s face. He hadn’t realized quite how tall Sherlock was. Tall and… fit and cut from marble or something.

“Storming out,” Sherlock flapped his hand absently at the outdoors. He flicked the sign to ‘Closed’ and locked he door.

“Clever pick up, that one,” John said wryly.

Sherlock chuckled, a deep and rich noise that John had to grin at. “Mmn, and how was the aortic dissection you had come in at the last minute?”

“I... What?” John looked at him curiously. “How could you possibly know about that?”

Sherlock smiled. “Coffee?” he spun back towards the counter.

John followed. “I don’t want to put you out. You’re closed.”

“It’s not a bother.” Sherlock paused, one hand on the machine. “Though, given the time of day, could I possibly convince you to cut back to two, maybe even just the single shot in your Americano?”

John huffed out a laugh. “Sure, sure. One is fine.” He bit his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth as he watched Sherlock go through the motions without thought. As the espresso was dripping, John narrowed his eyes. “Sherlock, are you the only person that works here?”

Sherlock cocked a brow at him. “Do you honestly think that’s the case?”

John shrugged, wetting his lower lip as he thought. “Just that I’ve never seen anyone else here.”

“You’ve just been here during my shifts.”

“What do you do when you’re not on shifts?” It was a personal question, and John knew it came across as hesitant.

“Outside of my loving devotion to all things caffeinated, I’m actually finishing a PhD. Sad how food science pays better than research.” Sherlock flashed him a manic grin, “Though, science is science. Amazing the experiments you can conduct from behind an apron and a desk.”

John bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the amusement showing on his face. “You experiment on the customers?”

“Only the irritating and rude ones,” Sherlock answered smoothly.

“You do have other customers, yeah?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “No, John. I sit here all day, alone, hoping you decide to drop in for a coffee. I’ve cleverly bought this storefront for that purpose alone. No one else buys coffee here, or works here, or knows this exists. In fact, it’s quite obvious that you are hallucinating. Perhaps you’re in a coma somewhere and this is simply a dream.”

John pursed his lips for a moment, taking the cup that Sherlock offered. The lid was on, there was milk in it. When had that become so well known? Sherlock tapped his own cup off of the one in John’s hand. “Oh, cheers,” John murmured.

“I was kidding,” Sherlock offered in a way that John wondered was almost shy.

John felt the beginning of a blush infuse his cheeks. “I know.”

“Mmn,” Sherlock started in on his coffee, so John did the same. He took a sip, winced, nodded, licked his lips, gave a slight hum and then smiled. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Wince? Every time. You wince. Is the coffee alright?” A thin line of concern appeared between Sherlock’s brows.

“I…” John tilted his head in thought. “I didn’t… Well, I knew, but…” He pulled a face. “My sister used to make coffee before school when we were still at home. And the travel mugs all looked the same. And she would add an eye-opener to hers on occasion and take the wrong one.”

Sherlock’s face pinched in an expression of disgust.

“Nothing like a shot of vodka in your coffee to wake you up in the morning.”

“That’s horrendous.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched back. “Tell me about it. I’m always expecting it when I smell coffee. So…”

Sherlock reached out and twisted John’s cup in his hand, tapping the side now facing him. “That’s what these are for, no?”

John smiled at the script.  ** _Jawn._** “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Sherlock smiled.

“Spell my name that way?”

Sherlock watched him, a light smile on his lips. “Phonetically?” John’s head tilted again. “The way I say it.”

“Oh,” John blushed. It did sound like Sherlock’s diction. His eyes flit to the writing beneath his name. **_Can I come home with you? My mother always told me to follow my dreams._** John’s blush spread and he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. “Are you serious?”

“Am I serious?” Sherlock asked innocently. “About?”

John smiled down at the counter for a moment before meeting Sherlock’s gaze. They were both smiling. And John was quite sure that there were high patches of color on Sherlock’s impressive cheekbones. And without really thinking about it, his tongue rolled over his lower lip. “You were wrong about the dinosaurs,” John murmured, setting his coffee on the counter and leaning forward towards Sherlock’s side of the divider.

“Oh?” Sherlock tilted his head, crowding forward into John’s personal space. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” John grinned, his eyes flitting down to Sherlock’s lips before tracing back up to his eyes. “I’m a doctor.”

He hadn’t meant it to be anything more than a gentle, chaste (well, chaste-ish) kiss; just a quick, hesitant even, peck. But the second he met the plush, warm lips, chaste wasn’t on the table anymore. And when Sherlock’s head tilted just so and his tongue swept across John’s lower lip, John had to groan and dig his fingers into silky curls and chaste was flat out the window. And when John tasted the coffee and sugar and mint straight out of Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock rumbled a deep approving noise low in his throat, there had been a word for something that was no longer something they were doing. And John nipped at Sherlock’s full lips before pulling back to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock let out a low hum and pulled his hand back from caressing John’s cheek. “I should be wrong more often.”

John chuckled. “I’m finding it hard to argue with that.”

“So, John Watson,” Sherlock purred. “I’m closing up. You’re off shift. Any bright ideas?”

“Well, I think your mother was right about some things. But uh…” He freed his fingers from Sherlock’s hair, letting the tips skim down that long elegant neck before straightening up into his own space again. “How do you feel about maybe grabbing a bite to eat?”

A slow and Cheshire smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “Dinner?”

John grinned in return. “Starved.”


	23. Bravo India November Golf Oscar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't an official prompt... I took it anyway. I've put the full prompt at the bottom so as not to spoil the surprise. Original post: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/121205973638/captain-liddy-john-invented-mycroft-bingo

“No.” Sherlock leveled an even stare at Mycroft.

“No?” Mycroft’s brow rose. “You cannot possibly expect me to buy into this dissimbulation.”

Sherlock snorted began drumming his fingers against the leather arm of his chair.

Mycroft took a measured breath and turned towards John, who had been relegated to the sofa when he’d accidentally walked into the middle of the fraternal cold war. Clearly not about to insert himself into whatever issue had started the petulant duel of haughty expressions, loquacious insults, and prolific silences, John sipped his morning coffee and turned the page of his newspaper. “I take it you’re now encouraging this puerile behavior?”

John glanced up, both brows high on his furrowed forehead. “Me?”

Mycroft’s eyes tightened fractionally.

John held up both hands. “I’ve been working. Practically full time. Everyone is out sick with the flu. This has nothing to do with me.”

Mycroft’s scowl was fleeting, but rather intense for his usual level of facial expression.

“You should just be glad I haven’t managed to bring that back to this flat,” John muttered under his breath. “The idea of either of you with vomiting bug is both hilarious and terrifying.”

Mycroft’s nose twitched in distaste, but he turned his attention back to his little brother. “It is a miracle neither of you have died of tetany in this squalor.”

“Oh!” John’s head snapped up, a rather pleased smile beginning to spread across his face. “Bravo!”

Sherlock snarled and launched himself out of his chair in a huff, stalking past Mycroft and towards the kitchen. “That’s not fair!”

John just grinned. “It’s completely fair. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Mycroft frowned deeply. It was as if he suddenly was no longer in the room. He stood, turned toward the kitchen, and glared. But Sherlock and John seemed to be engaged in a staring contest of their own. And as he watched, he became increasingly fascinated by and confident in the fact that John Watson was going to emerge victorious in the battle.

John crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “But you-”

John cleared his throat, raised an eyebrow pointedly, and tilted his head toward the fridge.

Sherlock’s face scrunched inwards and with a huff, he stormed to the refrigerator, pulled out a plastic bag of what could only be rotting splenic fragments, and held them out to John.

“In the bin, Sherlock,” John said flatly.

It was something like a whine, a high noise of frustration, and Sherlock reached for the cupboard under the sink.

“Outside.”

“Tedious!”

Mycroft bit back the bile that threatened his lower oesophagus. How a medical man could possibly bear such disgusting demonstrations of abject putridity was actually beyond comprehension.

Sherlock noticed the fractional blanching of Mycroft’s face, of course he did. “How’s the diet?” Sherlock smiled viciously, heading towards his brother.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“Fine!” Sherlock snapped, and stormed out of the flat.

When Mycroft finally drew his eyes from the now empty door, John was sipping his coffee and reading the paper again. Giving himself a small shake, Mycroft corrected his posture, turned his nose up, and stalked from the flat.

~o~

John sighed heavily as the black sedan rolled to a stop on the curb. He glanced down at the Tesco bags in his hands and up at Sherlock. “Really?”

Sherlock shrugged and yanked the door open in what should have looked violently clumsy, but somehow was graceful. And he followed that with an effortless contortion into the leather clad interior. John frowned at the door. He frowned at the car. He frowned up at the sky and over his shoulder to the empty pavement and down at his feet.

“Get in the car, Dr. Watson.”

Great. Just fucking brilliant. Mycroft had deigned to collect them himself. “I swear, Mycroft, if the milk goes off from your sour expression…” Then John remembered. And he smiled. And he tossed the bags in at Sherlock’s feet, fished his notepad from his pocket and slipped into the car. “You couldn’t just ring up, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s mouth did something akin to a smile, but it came across as menace. “The weather has been rather damp, I wouldn’t want the long walk in the fog to aggravate your shoulder.”

“How chivalrous,” John responded flatly.

“I live for your sunny disposition.”

Sherlock scoffed. John flinched minutely, crossed his arms, and sat back against the seat. “Wouldn’t want you to get sunburnt.”

Mycroft sniffed and turned his attention to Sherlock. “Have you given more thought to our discussion?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, Mycroft? You have the entirety of the secret service at your disposal and you continually torment me with your petty political intrigue. I am running out of dialects in which I can express my negative sentiment.”

John bit back a smile.

Mycroft arched a brow and somehow managed to look down his nose at Sherlock. “I suppose appealing to your better judgment when it comes to national security is out of the question.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in a smirk. “National security? Surely Five or Six or the SAS would be better suited to your machinations.”

“Need I remind you, brother dear, the rules of secrets?”

John grunted. It wasn’t good to draw attention to himself in situations like these, but he was actually looking forward to getting home and making a proper fry-up with eggs that haven’t been crushed under the weight of ego. “Really unlike you to have three people involved then if you’re going to have to kill two of us,” he said wryly.

“Oh, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft purred. “I wouldn’t kill you. You’re far more useful alive.”

A weaker person might have shuddered at that. A saner person might have been cowed. But John had never really considered himself either of those things. “If that were the case, you wouldn’t spend your mornings poking your brother with a stick.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “The carrot never worked either.”

John huffed out a laugh and Sherlock grinned in response. It was better that way. Sherlock never responded well to Mycroft’s open threats on John.

“If you two could conduct yourselves with a modicum of maturity, I am trying to discuss the state of Lahore.” Mycroft’s fingers drummed on the handle of his umbrella.

“Dull,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the same time that John smiled.

“India.”

“Pakistan,” Mycroft answered in irritation.

“No!” Sherlock punched the seat next to his hip and glared at John.

John grinned. “You heard me.”

“I will shred all of your jumpers,” Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms and sulking against the seat.

“You won’t,” John prodded him in the side. “You’re a terrible loser.”

“I didn’t lose!” Sherlock snapped.

“Not yet,” John’s smile was broad and proud.

And Mycroft frowned angrily. “If you two are quite done, there’s still the matter of…”

But the car had slowed outside of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock had flung the door open in a huff. “Get your minions to do your dirty work, Mycroft. It’s what you pay them for, is it not?” Then he slammed the door and stomped up the steps to the flat.

John stooped to collect their shopping. “You were right, Mycroft. Saved my shoulder some aches later. Ta.” Mycroft’s face pinched as John disappeared into the penumbra of the open flat door.

“Sir?”

“I’m not one to distrust my intuition, but those two…”

“Yes, sir. They are acting oddly.”

Mycroft snorted. “They are always behaving peculiarly.”

“More oddly?” Anthea offered wryly.

Mycroft hummed an agreement.

~o~

The next time John saw Mycroft, he couldn’t decide if it was horrific timing or magnificent timing, and it was, like all things Mycroft, quite unsettling. It was atrocious timing, because they were on a case, at a crime scene, and the case was interesting. Generally, Mycroft knew better than to attempt to garner Sherlock’s attention during a case. It was fantastic timing, because Sherlock had just eviscerated about five of the most junior MET employees, and was about to stalk off with his coat collar up, probably with the intent on taking on a few armed men by himself. And when John thought ‘by himself,’ clearly he included his own short stature and possible firearm in the mix. And he wasn’t really spoiling for a fight of that kind this evening.

“What is he doing here?” Sherlock snarled as he stalked towards Lestrade and the cars and the boundary of the crime scene and Mycroft standing idly by his sedan.

John raised a brow. “Maybe he killed that poor bloke.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue dismissively. “Even you cannot be that idiotic, John.”

“Oh, idiotic, yeah, ok. Ta.” John shoved his hands into his pockets as they neared Lestrade. Thankfully, most of the yarders were more terrified of Mycroft than of Sherlock, so the conversation would be relatively private. “Greg,” John gave a nod. “Mycroft,” he added warily.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m on a case.”

Mycroft blinked, unimpressed. “Rather pedestrian, this one.”

Lestrade frowned. “What?”

John shook his head and whispered an aside to him, “Your job is about to get easier.”

“Pedestrian? How would you know about pedestrian, Mycroft. You rarely bother to force physical activity on your ever-growing corpulence.”

John tried not to smile. Greg looked horrified.

“And you would have so much better experience with how often you venture into public transport?” Mycroft parried.

“If someone saw you on the tube, it’d be a sign of the end of days, Mycroft.”

“And you,” Mycroft sneered. “Know all about such portents due to your expansive knowledge of near death experiences.”

Oh. Shit. John stepped forward, half a shoulder blocking Sherlock’s aggressive advance. “Boys.”

Mycroft’s glare could have incinerated an iceberg, but John was happy to be on the receiving end of it if it spared Sherlock the total meltdown that was developing. Mycroft’s glare morphed into one of his less convincing smiles. “Any idea when you two might finish working through this painfully obvious issue?”

“Obvious?” Lestrade’s face scrunched.

Sherlock scoffed.

“I really must insist you abandon this ingrained apathy and get back to problem at hand.”

“Wait,” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “Sherlock, you didn’t say you were already busy.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock snapped.

“You should be,” Mycroft sniffed.

“Keep your fat fingers out of my business, Mycroft!”

Mycroft tutted, “What would Mummy say?"

Oh, he was so close. John just needed to nudge him a little. Just a little. “Oi!” He crossed his arms and frowned at Mycroft. “I’ve been to the Christmas dinners. You know he’s her favorite.”

The spasm of muscles in Mycroft’s face was both magnificent and horrific. Lestrade actually took a step back, “You’ve been to theirs for dinner?”

Mycroft and Sherlock both snapped their gazes to Lestrade in an act of haughty synchronicity. But where Mycroft continued to glare, Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Jealous?”

Lestrade looked terrified. John was trying not to smile given his proximity to an absolutely furious Mycroft. “Sentiment,” Mycroft sneered.

Boom! John cleared his throat. “November.”

“No!” Sherlock hissed.

“That’s two weeks out.” Mycroft glowered down at John. “Unacceptable.”

“Piss off, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “You could fix it yourself if you weren’t so damn self-important. And that man wasn’t murdered. He slipped in the shower and cracked his skull on the towel rod, but his fiancée panicked and her brother-in-law staged this to look like a murder, and they’re all so idiotic it makes my head ache!” Then he turned on his heel and stormed off to the road. Mycroft sighed, rolled his eyes, and disappeared in his car.

“Should you, I don’t know, go get him?” Greg asked carefully.

John grinned. “Nah. He’s heading back to Baker Street.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah.” John clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s cleaning the kitchen.”

“What?” Greg’s jaw dropped.

“Yup.” John shrugged with an innocent look on his face. “Shouldn’t you go question that fiancée?”

Greg sighed. “He was serious about that?”

John just smiled.

~o~

 Sherlock frowned as his phone chimed. “Pass me my phone.”

“John?” Sherlock adjusted the focus ever-so-slightly. “I said, pass me my phone.”

Silence. Stillness.

“Please,” Sherlock rumbled as an afterthought.

Still nothing.

“John?” Sherlock called. He had been right there. He had been there, in his chair, reading the paper. “John!” With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked the text.

_Golf_

No. Dammit! NO!

The call connected on the first ring. “Hello,” John said pleasantly.

“That doesn’t count!” Sherlock hissed.

“Oh?”

“We both have to be there! You can’t just let him abduct you so you can get a leg up in this!”

He could hear the amusement in John’s voice. “Sherlock, if you think I’ve sought your brother’s company for any reason. At all. Then you’re sorely mistaken. And I’m worried about you in a medical capacity.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated whine.

“Though, you did call and you prefer to text,” John mused. “Maybe you are out of sorts. Do you need a doctor?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snarled.

“I’ll be home shortly,” John paused, shifting the phone. He was still in Mycroft’s car. He was having this conversation in front of Mycroft! Which meant that Mycroft still hadn’t figured this out. It was small consolation. “Unless your brother takes another detour…” John trailed off.

Oh, Sherlock wished he could see the glare John was giving the pompous know-it-all. Mycroft would never admit it, but he was, the smallest bit intimidated by John Watson. Not in an intellectual way; never that. John was tough, steady, calm, rational, and only to a point. Then John Watson became a reckless, stubborn, violent, vengeful demon. And while Mycroft generally knew how far he could push John, the possibility of tipping him over the edge into unpredictability always loomed. And John might, might take Mycroft by surprised in a physical way. Because disregard for one’s own physical wellbeing was not rational, and that was alarming. “I cannot be held accountable if I accidentally break your Bond DVDs,” Sherlock purred.

“Sherlock, Do NOT-”

He disconnected the line before John could yell at him.

~o~

John stumbled in the door after Sherlock, shaking water from his hair and giggling. Sherlock unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and shot John an amused smile. “You can’t blame me for that, Sherlock,” John chuckled, his shoes making squelching sounds as they started up the stairs. “I can’t control the weather.”

Sherlock gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Then what use are you?”

Another peal of laughter ripped free from John just before they reached the sitting room. “I keep you swimming in tea and biscuits.”

Sherlock looked at his coat pointedly, the wool sodden and dark. “Swimming indeed.” And he turned into the sitting room. And he froze.

John bumped into his back, not expecting Sherlock to pull up short. “Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

John elbowed past him to find Mycroft standing in the middle of their living room, glaring at the pair of them. John gave Mycroft a look, “I’ll make some tea then?” Then he doubled over with laughter.

“No,” Sherlock said more firmly. “Go away, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft started.

“No,” Sherlock insisted, stalking around the back of him and shoving him toward the door. “Out. Now!”

“Sherlock,” John smothered his chuckles into his forearm. “Don’t be rude.” And he escaped to the kitchen and the safety of the kettle.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Mycroft grumbled.

“You are an unmitigated ass,” Sherlock hissed. “Now stop breaking into my flat and leave.”

“B and E,” John snickered from the hob.

“Stop it,” Sherlock grumbled at John.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft planted his feet and turned to glare at his younger brother.

Sherlock frowned.

“Oh don’t pout. It’s unbecoming in anyone over the age of five. And you have never been good at shamming anyone but Father. I’ll not have your childish antics standing in the way of the security of this nation.” Mycroft tapped the end of his umbrella off the floor.

“Queen and country, Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen.

“Shut up,” Sherlock called back. “And get out,” he glared at Mycroft.

“I cannot comprehend your reluctance to engage in even the simplest of tasks.” Mycroft sniffed.

“If it were simple, you wouldn’t persist in harassing me.”

“I wouldn’t persist if I hadn’t years of training in negotiating your horrific manners,” Mycroft shot back.

“Manners, Sherlock,” John called with a laugh.

“Shut Up, John!”

Mycroft raised a brow.

“I’m surrounded by morons,” Sherlock dug his fingers into his hair in frustration. “Get out. Get out before you ruin everything.”

“Ruin?” Mycroft snorted. “How could anyone ruin this disaster of a hovel you call home, brother mine?”

“Hovel!” John yelled from the kitchen with far more amusement than Mycroft anticipated or was contented with.

Sherlock let out a high whine and tugged his hands free of his curls. “If you find it so distasteful, why do you keep insisting on invading our home uninvited?!”

“Though, it is quite a bit neater than I’m used to,” Mycroft mused, pleased at Sherlock’s distress. “Are you forcing Mrs. Hudson to tidy after you again?”

Sherlock straightened suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t."

“I worry, Sherlock.” Mycroft twisted the tip of his umbrella against the floor. “Constantly.”

“Oh!” John giggled, bracing his hands against the kitchen table. “Oh! Oh. O?” He wrapped a hand around his abdomen and dropped his forehead against the wood. “Holy shit. Sherlock, I can’t remember the NATO alphabet. What? What’s the O?”

Mycroft’s face contorted into an uncomfortable and unfamiliar position. Confusion. “Oscar.”

“Oscar!” John dropped onto his haunches, clinging to his belly with one hand and the edge of the table with the other, laughing hysterically.

“Out,” Sherlock pled.

Mycroft’s head tilted as he raised a brow at John, now only holding himself a fraction of an inch from rolling on the floor laughing. “Is he quite alright?”

“Now is not the time for concern. Please leave.”

John dropped onto his arse and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, slowly, very slowly reigning in the giggles. “Bingo!”

“What?” Mycroft frowned.

“Bingo!” John called again. “Oh God, Sherlock. Bingo.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened as he studied first John, then turned his intense scrutiny on his brother. Sherlock actually had the decency to look ashamed. “Oh for God’s sake,” Mycroft sneered, and stormed out of the flat.

John watched him leave from the kitchen floor and huffed out a few spare chuckles. Sherlock sighed and tried to glare. “Really, John. You’re on the floor.”

“Worth it,” John grinned.

“I despise you.”

“You don’t,” John’s grin widened.

“What do you want?”

“Angelo’s.” John shifted to sit cross-legged, propping an elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm, a young, happy expression on his face.

“Really?” Sherlock tilted his head. “That… That’s my favorite.”

“Mmn,” John agreed, sucking in his lower lip to dull the smile. “And we’ve a wonderfully clean flat in which to enjoy it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I can’t hear you from this side of all my clean laundry.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

John sighed, “Sadly, I don’t think Mycroft is going to let us play anymore.”

“Pity.” Sherlock held out a hand and tugged John up from the floor. “Shame we didn’t get a picture of his expression. It’s rare enough.”

John huffed. “He might have sprained something.”

Sherlock let a smile creep across his face. “Mmm. I might need to hack the CCTV feeds; I’m sure he’s reset the surveillance in the flat.”

“Really?” John raised a brow. He turned toward the bookshelf, the bookshelf that invariably held Mycroft’s newest camera, and with a mischievous quirk to the corner of his lips, he mouthed, _Bingo._

Sherlock doubled over laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From captain-liddy: John invented Mycroft Bingo. Notable tiles include, “‘brother mine’” “*practiced patrician sniffing*” “vague reference to national secrets” “implying that Sherlock is lazy or childish while simultaneously insisting that he’s the only one who can help” and “complaining about the state of the flat, despite having come over uninvited.” John always wins because Sherlock gets too grumpy to keep track when he has to talk to Mycroft. But John mouthing ‘bingo’ at him, when Mycroft has only been in the flat for two minutes always makes Sherlock laugh.


	24. Immunocompetent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a post by ohsebs:
> 
> 'my nurse just came in to check my vitals and I told him to fight me from beneath a mountain pillows. He just moved my pillows and told me maybe later.
> 
> he just came in again and when I tried to tell him to fight me again I started coughing and I couldn’t breathe and then then he just smiled and told he won’t fight me because he knows I’d win
> 
> Apparently I seduced him with my drool and terrible lungs because he wrote his number on a coffee from the giftshop under “fight me?”'
> 
> And that was, of course, sent off to me by Fleur. Who will be all of our deaths. Dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Post: http://fleurdelis221b.tumblr.com/post/121442381238/officialcadbane-ohsebs-ohsebs-ohsebs-my

_John? –SH_

_John? –SH_

_John! –SH_

**_Sherlock, I’m working. I’ll be home at six._ **

_Tedious. Come home now. –SH_

**_Work. I’m off shift at five. I’ll pick up some takeaway from that new Thai place. Think about what you’d like._ **

_I’d like you to come home. I’m bored. –SH_

_John. My experiment has not produced the expected results. –SH_

_I cannot fathom who could possibly keep you this occupied for more than a quarter of an hour. –SH_

_People will not expire from the common cold. Put up a sign indicating their idiocy and you will no longer need be in the clinic. –SH_

_John? –SH_

_Don’t ignore me, it’s childish. –SH_

_John. –SH_

John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed. He ought to just turn his phone off. At least put it on silent and in the bottom of the drawer. And he certainly should stop reading the damn texts as they come in. It had been months since Sherlock had been this disruptive during a clinic shift, and it was infuriating. He was also moving way too slowly. He’d have to work through lunch as it was and he’d be lucky to finish at five. John sighed, shook himself, and called for the next patient. He was a professional, after all.

Halfway through explaining, for the fifth time, why an antibiotic wouldn’t fix the head cold his patient was currently suffering, and why another GP wouldn’t give an antibiotic either, John’s mobile vibrated in his pocket: not a text, a call. Odd, he thought, then dismissed it in favor of explaining that there was not yet a vaccine for the common cold. Curse Sherlock for being right about the damn sign.

He was nearly, nearly there to getting the patient out when his mobile rang. It rang in his pocket. John frowned. He’d put it on vibrate. There was no way it should be ringing. Silencing it with a quick and apologetic motion, he fretted that he was now back to square one with the patient. Then the practice phone on his desk rang.

“Should you get that?” The patient crossed their arms.

“I’m so sorry. Really, it’s only for an emergency.” He pushed back in his chair to get to the phone. “Lily? I’m with a patient; is this urgent?”

“No,” drawled a familiar and saccharine voice.

Not Lily. John winced. “Hang on.”

“I am quite busy today, Doctor Watson.”

“Just…” he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “I’m going to put you on hold. I will be back momentarily.” Hitting the hold button was both thrilling and terrifying. And when he turned back to his patient, they were speaking on their own mobile quickly and excitedly.

John waited for them to finish. And when they disconnected, they didn’t even wait for him to start. “I have to go. Sweepstakes on the radio. I can’t believe I won! I never win anything!” Then they were out the door.

John braced himself and picked up the phone again, engaging the call. He cleared his throat. “Did you do that to my patient?”

“As I said, I am quite busy today, John. And as it is quite clear that Mr. Kellogg was simply wasting your time and talent with redundant questions, I expedited the conclusion of the consultation.”

“Flattery, Mycroft?” John grumbled unimpressed. “What do you want?”

“Flattery can be fact if not overdone with aggrandizement. And I seem to find myself requiring your unique set of skills this afternoon.”

“Unique set of skills,” John echoed morosely. “I’m in clinic, Mycroft. I have a long list of patients to see, and as I told your brother, I’ll be off at five and home by six. If the two of you would leave me alone long enough to actually do my job.”

“I have arranged for cover,” Mycroft said coolly.

“Cover? Wha-” John cut himself off when a knock sounded and the door pushed in.

“Doctor Watson, there is a car waiting out front. I’ll finish out the clinic on your behalf.”

John glared first at the man hovering in the door, then at the phone. “Mycroft,” John grumbled.

“You were an army doctor, were you not, John?” Mycroft purred. “I have need of someone with....”

“With what?”

“Battlefield experience.”

John groaned.

“Do get in the car. Dr. Paulin will complete your clinic.”

John sighed. “Fine.” And he hung up the phone. He collected his jacket and texted Sarah on his way to the government vehicle idling at the curb. She responded almost instantly that she was aware and not to fret. But that’s what John was now doing. Fretting. Because Mycroft Holmes couldn’t give a straight answer to save his life. And because he could currently be en route to an active war zone, or to Mycroft’s office, which might as well be a war zone. Or because he just realized how cross Sherlock would be whenever John finally did get home. And for all the fretting, John hardly noticed when the car pulled to a stop.

Stopped right in front of 221B.

John groaned again. What did Sherlock do?

The driver exited the vehicle and handed John a bag with… supplies? Then nodded and disappeared in the car. John sighed and nodded and headed up to his flat, and his flatmate, and god only knew what else.

“Sherlock?”

John furrowed his brow, set the bag on the coffee table, and hung up his jacket. “Sherlock?” John wrinkled his nose as he heard a soft rustling sound from somewhere near the kitchen. “Sherlock, I swear to God, if this is some kind of experiment…” No, the kitchen was empty. John ventured down the hall and knocked on Sherlock’s door. “Sherlock?”

There was a muted and muffled, verbal response from within.

Right. John braced himself and eased the door open. “Sherlock?” He had been ready for a great number of things to greet him on the other side of the door. He was alert for blood and gore, cautious of violence and malady, even expectant of disaster and ruin.

He was not, however, prepared for the absolute mountain of pillows and duvet that met his entrance. Nor the barely visible dark head of curls that stirred in the fortress of down. And certainly not for the harsh, graveled voice that croaked out of the dimly lit room. “Fight me!”

John’s brows pinched. “Sorry?”

A long, elegant arm waved absently at him for a moment. “Fight. Me.”

John opened his mouth. Fight me? Sherlock’s voice sounded ruined. Dry, raspy, and… weak? John closed his mouth and inched into the room, crossing to the bedside as cautiously as he would enter an active crime scene. “Sherlock?”

One of the pillows flew off the bed at less than impressive speed and hardly expedient force and thudded into John’s knees. “I said fight me!” Sherlock wheezed and erupted into a coughing fit.

John sighed. “You idiot.”

Sherlock grumbled and kicked at the duvet and the pillows and threatened to throw another but only managed to drop it over his own head.

Danger averted, John perched on the edge of the bed. “Let’s have a look at you, now.”

“Go away,” Sherlock clutched the pillow over his face, muffling his voice in the fluff. “Let me die in peace.”

John carefully set his fingers on Sherlock’s wrist, taking his pulse. When he wasn’t instantly assaulted with bedding, he eased the pillow from Sherlock’s head and gave him a gentle smile. “No, no. No one’s dying on my watch.”

Sherlock scoffed, and promptly had another violent bout of coughing. “Mycroft would let me die.”

“He would not,” John gave him a stern look. “He’s the one that called me.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock tried to hiss and sputtered out a cough.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” He rested the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead. “I might have managed to check on you during lunch.”

“I did,” Sherlock muttered. “It was unexpected.”

John furrowed his brow, mulling over his previous texts. “You… Your experiment?” He cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Sherlock groaned. “Why is there no cure for the common cold? This is absurd. I will not stand-“ Then he coughed and groaned and curled up in a ball, half hidden under the pillows again.

John patted his shoulder affectionately. “Stay here, I’ll be back in a moment.”

“You stay here,” Sherlock mumbled.

John tried valiantly not to laugh as he made his way back to the kitchen. He washed his hands, shed his jumper and cuffed his sleeves. Thankfully, the bag of supplies contained an ample amount of juice and tucs and paracetamol and strepsils and, oh some honey and chamomile tea. Brilliant. He turned on the kettle, made two cups of tea, and assembled a tray for the room.

When he returned to Sherlock’s bedroom, he announced his presence with a firm, “Do not throw a pillow. If I end up covered in tea, I’ll not be the only one sore for it.”

Sherlock’s grumbled response was lost in the layers of bedding.

“Come on, love,” John set the tray on the bedside table and settled himself against the headboard. “Sit up, take these tablets.”

Sherlock whinged and moaned and growled an impressive and creative litany of curses at John, but managed to get upright enough to accept the tea and paracetamol. “You’re a horrible doctor,” he hissed, swallowing the tablets. “Tea as a cure for a virus.”

“I know,” John nodded. “Drink your tea.”

Sherlock took a few sips then frowned. “Fight me,” he muttered petulantly. Then he coughed hard enough that John took his tea away to avoid spilling.

“Sherlock, you know very well I’m not going to fight you.” He set the tea aside and retrieved the pillow from the floor, placing it on his lap and patting it invitingly. “I’m not an idiot. You would win.”

Sherlock pouted. “Of course you’re an idiot. Clearly I’d win.”

“Mmn,” John hummed, patting the pillow again. “Come on, love.”

Sherlock huffed and flopped gracelessly down onto the pillow, burrowing his face into John’s belly. “Stupid viruses.”

“You ought to fight them instead,” John murmured.

“I do. Immunocompetition. Immunocombat. Immunoclash.”

John chuckled. “Immunocompetent.”

“You never fight me.”

John carded his fingers through the dark curls, “Hush. I know you’d win,” he murmured.

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”


	25. We're Devils and Black Sheep, We're Really Bad Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is originally an Awful AU # 303:
> 
> “You’re dressed as my younger sibling’s favorite character at this theme park and they won’t leave you alone I’m so sorry!” AU 
> 
> Which Fleur passed on to me... as per usual. To which I said:
> 
> This is an AU for OFD. Where Mycroft brings Sherlock to Disneyland, and John works there as a pirate character to operate the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. 
> 
> And Fleur said: 
> 
> Oh. My. Lord. Can… Can this happen? Like… What age is acceptable for sexy time… Can Sherlock be like a goth 18 year old who dresses like Johnny Depp but kind of in an off way? Can John be like 25 and ripped and actually take the lad out drinking? Can this happen?
> 
> ... Now, it's deviated a bit. I hope you enjoy it. Please forgive my horrible and unbeta'd French. It's been years since I've spoken French, and longer years since I've written in French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post: http://fleurdelis221b.tumblr.com/post/120053851148/awful-au-303

“Really, Sherlock? Must we?”

“C’mon, Myc!” Sherlock leaned his weight back in an exaggerated tug. “S'il vous plaît! Je veux voir les pirates! It’s where the pirates are! Vas-Y!”

Mycroft sighed heavily and let himself be dragged across the park towards the corner where, as Sherlock so eloquently put it, the pirates are. He had known this was coming. He had been well aware that the majority of their time in the theme park would be spent in and around the pirates. He couldn’t really fathom why he was being difficult about it in the first place. Taking his younger brother to Disneyland Park had been the excuse he needed to escape the French countryside and into, well next to, Paris.

By the time they’d reached the entrance to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, Sherlock had worked himself up into a near frenzy of excitement, and Mycroft was sweating in his slacks and shirtsleeves. Linen, he thought absently, must invest in a linen suit for the summers.

“Now, Sherlock.” He squatted down, bringing himself below eye-level. “Écoutes-moi, s'il vous plaît.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “I know, I know. As soon as I’m done, I’m to meet you here. I’m not to talk to strangers. I’m not to wander off. I’m not to ask people about dead things. Je ne suis pas un imbécile”

Mycroft stifled the broad smile that threatened his face. Sherlock had finally started into his second growth spurt. Eleven. He was all limbs and big feet and uncoordinated in a pre-pubertal way, much like a puppy that had yet to grow into it’s paws and ears. Nothing anyone had tried could tame Sherlock’s wild curls, and his penchant for science and investigation kept him indoors, or underground, or deep in the woods so often that he’d never gained the spattering of freckles that Mycroft so despised across the bridge of his own nose.

It would only be two or three years before Sherlock was old enough for college, it didn’t matter how much Mummy wanted to keep him home, protect him from what would be a difficult socialization. And Mycroft could understand that. There was a beautiful innocence to Sherlock’s boundless curiosity and passion. And that would be too difficult for an inexperienced hand to direct without crushing him. Perhaps that was truly why he agreed to this little trip. And with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, in his oversized white button down shirt, his short pants, his braces, the old waistcoat he’d appropriated as a vest, the eye patch, the hat that Mycroft had helped him fold out of newspaper on the train in… Sentiment. “Vas-Y, mon petit voyou.”

A wide and mischievous smile spread across Sherlock’s face and his eyes flashed. “Thanks, Myc!” And he tore off to get into the mercifully short line for the ride.

Mycroft waited until he couldn’t be seen, then found a discrete spot near the exit, in the shade, and tapped out a cigarette. He propped himself against the railing, lit the smoke and took a deep drag. He had the impression that he would be occupying a minor position in Sherlock’s very narrow interest for the remainder of the day.

“God, I would murder for a smoke right now.”

Mycroft shifted, lazily drawing his gaze to the man that had interrupted his first moment of peace and quiet since the family holiday had begun. He arched a brow imperiously. It was an expression he had perfected his first year in Uni and it managed to demand answers to questions he couldn’t be bothered to ask.

“Pardon. Puis-je en avoir un?”

Mycroft gave him an once-over. Subtle, rapid, decisive. Heading into his final year of Uni, studying something in the social sciences, history perhaps, working for the summer with a distant branch of his family, money tight at home, home somewhere near Bristol but educated in London, had a rebellious streak, has straightened out… Mostly… Fit… Flexible… Interesting. Mycroft gave a lazy smile. “Comme vous voulez,” he shook out another cigarette for the man and offered the lighter.

“Merci.”

“N’est rien,” Mycroft purred.

~o~

Sherlock ran full steam out the exit, his arms practically wind-milling as he came around the corner. He found Mycroft easily, standing off to the side, chatting with some guy, smoking. Boring! “Je vais aller encore,” he cried as he sped past his brother.

He heard Mycroft laugh, his voice rumbling to his companion as Sherlock tore off for the entrance again. Mycroft was ennuyeux. Being in Uni made him stuffy. Who cares if he went to Uni two years early, Uni must be absolutely dreadful to turn Mycroft into that. And he’s smoking. Gross. No joie de vivre. Décevant. When they got back to nan’s cottage, Sherlock was going to spend hours telling Redbeard about these pirates. Pirates!

He skidded to a stop as he reached the queue again, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the line wove slowly toward the ride. Again, he thought excitedly. Encore. The line took longer this time around, and he was nearly beside himself when he reached the next-in-line status. He hummed eagerly.

“Oh hullo,” one of the cast members sorting the line smiled down at Sherlock. “Back again are we?”

Sherlock bit his lower lip around a grin. “Oui. Again!”

The cast member chuckled. “Alright, ya scurvy dog.”

Sherlock beamed. “I’m a pirate!”

“’Course y’are.” He plucked Sherlock’s hat from his head and ruffled the dark curls there. “Like a wee Blackbeard.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as his hat was returned. “Really?”

The cast member grinned. “A scallywag like you. I’d be sure to steer clear of ye.” Then he straightened as the next boat pulled up to the dock. “Yo Ho!” he bellowed. “Listen up, you landlubbers or I’ll have ye walkin’ the plank!”

Sherlock listened, raptured. Then he practically jumped into the boat and snapped down the safety bar. “On y va!”

~o~

The fourth time Sherlock found his way to the front of the line, the same cast member was still keeping the peace and desperately trying to settle an argument between a group of teens. Sherlock watched, fascinated as the short blond crossed his arms and glared. He seemed to grow half a foot and his voice dropped to a dangerous and stern pitch that the teens had no choice but to listen to.

“Really bad eggs,” he muttered.

In a huff, they dropped into the boat, rocking it violently and splashing water up the sides of the chute and splattering droplets across those standing nearest.

“Oi!” he jabbed a finger at them. “One more, and you’re gone.”

“Aye, aye,” one of them snickered.

His eyes narrowed. “Yo HO!” he snapped, and launched into a rather terse version of his safety script.

When the boat had finally departed, Sherlock watched him warily and whispered, “Vous êtes effrayant quand vous êtes en colère.“

He tilted his head at Sherlock and smiled gently. “I have no idea what you just said there, mate.” Then his brow furrowed. “Oh, yer hat.”

When Sherlock reached up, his fingers met soggy and sagging newspaper. “Oh,” he said sadly, unable to keep from pouting. “Myc made it for me. Je ne sais pas comment en faire.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Don’t pout, eh. Pirates don’t pout.” His tone was far from scolding, and he deftly plucked Sherlock’s hat from his head and replaced it with his own. “There we go. A proper captain’s hat for ye.”

Sherlock froze, watching the young man with wide eyes.

Then he laughed. “Come now, none of that. Up to the front with you. It’s about time you get to sit at the bow of the boat there.” He guided Sherlock past the queue with a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. “Voilà. To the front, like a proper Captain.”

After seeing to Sherlock, the young man turned and bellowed. “YO HO!”

Sherlock grinned. “Mon Capitaine!” And bounced in his seat until the ride began.

~o~

Apparently, four times on the ride was quite enough for Mycroft’s tastes, though Sherlock objected; there was no such thing as too much pirates! But his companion had to return to work, and there was only so much one could smoke before it became distasteful. So he caught Sherlock around the waist as he tried to speed past again, setting him against the rail with a stern look.

“Ça suffit” he hissed. Nothing like a terse French scolding to bring Sherlock to heel. He gave Sherlock a grim expression, “You need to eat something, Sherlock.”

“Not hungry!” Sherlock tried to push past his brother.

He wasn’t fooled. If let loose, Sherlock would run until there was nothing but fumes and he’d keep on until he collapsed. And as much as he was fond of his brother, carrying him back to the train and all the way back to gran’s was pushing the boundaries of fraternal affection. Mycroft sighed heavily. “I promised mummy that I’d feed you lunch. Please, Sherlock,” he raised a brow. “We can eat at the pirate café if you’d like.”

Sherlock considered it and Mycroft watched the internal debate rage across his brother’s expressive face. “D’accord. But I want to go on the ride again before we leave.”

Mycroft nodded absently; he expected nothing less than bartering from Sherlock and another turn on the ride wasn’t much of a price. Then tilted his head. “Where on earth did you get that hat?”

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed in an amiable enough mood. And distracted enough eat an entire pirate-themed sandwich without further argument, though Mycroft still hadn’t received a straight answer about the hat. He just hoped Sherlock hadn’t stolen it. Unlikely, but his brother was light-fingered enough that he might have lifted it from one of the animatronics in the ride. Giving in to temptation, Mycroft picked the odd chip from Sherlock’s plate. One or two would never hurt, and Sherlock was certainly not going to eat them himself.

“Mon Capitaine!”

Mycroft’s head snapped around as Sherlock was dashing across the café and out the side door. “Sherlock!” Damn. Sure, everything had been going way too smoothly. Mycroft pushed out of the booth and headed into the park. He wouldn’t run, but he could certainly walk at a reasonably fast clip. Besides, it wasn’t hard to find Sherlock, the sound of his excitedly squeaking voice, alternating rapidly between French and English carried over the white noise of the insipid people.

“Aren’t you just a font of pirate lore.”

Mycroft rounded a corner to find Sherlock tugging on a young man’s vest while pouring out sentence after sentence of buccaneers and pirates and sailors and ships, only catching small gasps of air mid sentence.

“Is he yours?” A woman dressed as a wench gestured with her carefully manicured fingers.

The young man cleared his throat and set a hand affectionately on Sherlock’s pilfered hat. “No, course not.”

“He’s mine,” Mycroft offered resolutely. “My apologies.”

Sherlock shot an insulted glare at his brother. “Certainement, je ne suis pas le tien, cher frère.“ Mycroft scowled at him, but Sherlock turned back to the cast member, another tirade of pirates spilling from his mouth.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cautioned, at least the source of the hat had made itself known.

“He’s not bothering me,” the young man grinned down at Sherlock. “No one starts off as a salty old seadog.”

“John, you haven’t even finished your joke,” the wench complained.

“Oh,” he grinned. “So then the pirate says, ‘I wasn’t really used to the hook yet.’” And then he chuckled.

The woman rolled her eyes. “Terrible.”

Sherlock’s face broke into a broad smile and he giggled. Mycroft was with the female cast member on this one, it was a terrible joke going by the punch line. “Do you know any jokes about French pirates?”

“Sherlock, leave the poor man to his job,” Mycroft stepped forward, holding out a hand. “You have to know he’s not a real pirate.”

The look of shock and heartbreak on Sherlock’s face was enough to cause Mycroft a fleeting moment of regret. Then Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he swung his gaze to the young man. His glare scoured the man from head to toe, and Sherlock’s cheeks slowly flushed with emotion. “Vraiment,” the ire and betrayal flashing across his face. “You’re not a pirate. A real pirate would know the difference between a fore royal and a trysail. And a real pirate wouldn’t yell at rule breakers; there are no rules, only guidelines. And a real captain wouldn’t give his hat to a cabin boy. And a real pirate wouldn’t be nice to me. No one is nice to me! You’re not a captain! And you’re not just not a pirate!” Sherlock’s voice started rising in anger and distress. “You’re not French; you’re from Surry and studying in London. And you’re only sixteen! And you’re not allowed to be working here! And your brother is a drunk! Je vous déteste! Je vais être le pirate méchant à naviguer sur l'océan!” And in a final fit of pique, Sherlock threw the hat on the ground.

“You’re sixteen?” the woman raised a brow in indignation. “Jesus Christ, John. I thought you were at least legal.”

John’s mouth was hanging open as he blinked at Sherlock, completely unaware of the derisive look he received from the woman as she stomped off. “What?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed, grabbing his shoulders and drawing him away from the young man. “I’m sorry. He’s very passionate. I am so sorry. I cannot apologize enough. We were just leaving.”

John shook himself and furrowed his brow. “No,” he shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. “No, no. I’m sorry. I…” He sighed and scooped up the hat, dusting it absently against his hip.

“Come along, Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to steer his little brother away, but Sherlock crossed his arms and resolutely glowered at John.

John gave a grim, thin-lipped smile and squatted down in front of Sherlock. “You’re right,” he raised both brows pointedly as he battled the urge to smile in the face of the fearsome pout. “I’m not a real pirate. I am from Surry. I am sixteen. And my sister is going through a rebellious phase. You, however,” he replaced the hat on Sherlock’s head. “Are not a cabin boy; you’re a captain. People should always be nice to you. You’re scary clever. And when you’re older, I’ll tell you the joke about the terrible French pirate. And I know, that if you put your mind to it, vous serez le plus redouté de pirates.” He adjusted the hat, tipping the brim up so he could see Sherlock’s expression. He winked and smiled at the weak affection he saw there. “And remember, we’re rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves…”

Sherlock mumbled something quietly at his toes.

John grinned. “We’re devils and black sheep, really bad eggs…”

“Drink up, me ‘earties,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yo Ho!” John flicked the brim of the hat with the tips of his fingers and straightened up.

Mycroft gave the young man an honest smile and tipped his head in thanks. “Alright, Sherlock. Come along now.”

“Bye,” Sherlock whispered and gave a small wave.

~o~

John snagged a fresh beer and winked at Mike, “This was a terrible idea, and I’ll never forgive you!”

Mike laughed. “Last chance at fun, John. You know once we qualify in the spring we’ll never be allowed fun again. And certainly no fancy dress! Or really any parties at all.”

“Or sleep!” John added.

“Or sex,” Mike frowned.

“What?!” John couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing instead. “Christ, Mike, did you invite every sodding uni in town?”

“Only the reputable ones.” Mike produced his own beer from behind the makeshift bar. “Good turn out though. Where on earth did you find that costume?” Mike squinted at the breeches and vest and shirt and bandana and hat. “It… It looks vaguely familiar.”

John plucked at his puffed out white shirt. “And it’s about two sizes too small.”

“OH MY GOD!” Mike choked on a too large swig of beer. “Is that your cast costume?!”

“Greg’s around here too somewhere,” John grinned. “At least I won’t look an idiot alone.”

“Who’s an idiot?” Greg threw an arm around John’s shoulder, clearly a few beers ahead.

“Another pirate?” John tried to look appalled. “That’s it! One of us will have to go home and change.”

Greg squinted at him. “At least my costume fits.”

“I’ve been told these breeches make my arse look amazing.”

The both laughed and clinked their bottles together. Mike gave a pleasantly intoxicated smile, “So you two worked together then?”

“We did,” Greg nodded solemnly. “Got fired together too.”

John tried to frown, but he giggled. “Oh, she was worth it though.”

“She was pissed when she found out you were a baby,” Greg grinned. “Not as pissed though as when she found out I liked pirates more than prostitutes!”

“You’re both nutters,” Mike said without venom.

“Oi!” John objected. “You ought to respect your Captain! On and off the pitch!”

“Sir, yes, Sir.” Mike’s salute was atrocious.

“Hey, John,” Greg leaned in conspiratorially. “You remember the song?”

“Ooooooh.” John nodded. He glanced around quickly. “On the bar?”

“Careful!” Mike warned, but the two were already halfway up and halfway too drunk to care.

John nodded to Greg and they both smiled. “Oi!” Greg shouted over the din of people milling about in their costumes. He wasn’t loud enough.

John cleared his throat and let out a bellow, “YO HO!” And heads turned. Conversations stalled. “Yo Ho, YO HO! A pirate’s life for me!”

Greg gave the first line, “We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot!”

John came in on the rejoinder, “Drink up, me ‘earties, YO HO!” And then took the next line himself. “We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot!”

Then together, “Drink up, me ‘earties, Yo HO!”

A few of the party goers seemed to know the song well enough that they could throw out the odd “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!”

“We extort, we pilfer, we filch, and sack!

Drink up, me ‘earties, yo ho!”

“Maraud and embezzle, and even highjack!

Drink up, me ‘earties, YO HO!

Yo ho! Yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!”

Mike was standing at the foot of the bar and could personally take responsibility for the swaying and swinging of beverages as others joined in the fun.

“We kindle and char, inflame and ignite!

Drink up, me ‘earties, yo ho!” Greg sang.

“We burn up the city, we’re really a fright!

Drink up, me ‘earties, Yo HO!” John tipped his beer up, finishing half the bottle in a swig.

“We’re rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves!

Drink up, me’earties, yo ho!”

John was enjoying himself, really getting into the performance though it was the first time he’d sung the damn thing in nearly a decade. “We’re devils and black sheep, really bad eggs!

Drink up, me ‘earties, Yo HO!”

Someone else was dressed as a pirate, occupying the bar space next to John, sandwiching him in the middle of a trio now.

“Yo ho! Yo ho! A pirate’s life for me!”

“We’re beggars and blighters, never-do-well cads!

Drink up, me ‘earties, yo ho!” Greg flashed John a smile and he knew they’d be hamming up the last line.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaye!” John called and waited a long beat in silence. “But! We’re loved!” he crossed his hands over his heart, “By our mommies and dads!” They sighed in unison. Paused. Then grinned devilishly. “Drink up, me ‘earties, YO HO!”

There was a raucous cheer and John nearly tipped himself off the bar giggling. Greg launched himself to the floor with a resounding self-cheer and somehow managed to land on his feet. John let out a whoop, but opted not to risk it, turning to clamor down with drunken caution and instead ran smack into the third pirate. “Oh, hello!” John smiled up at the taller bloke.

Grey-green eyes flashed with amusement as the smile on the man’s lips turned dangerous. “Hello, Captain.”

John tilted his head in question. The fellow was taller, but lanky, clearly not solid enough for rugby. Dark, wild curls framed pale, unmarred skin, so not someone from work either. And John was damn sure he’d have noticed someone as fucking fit in one of his classes at Bart’s. He wet his lips compulsively. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” There, fall back on unwavering manners and stoicisms when faced with the best talent at the party. “John Watson,” he stuck out his hand.

That grin, that predatory, violent, hazardous grin reappeared momentarily as the man took John’s hand. “Sherlock,” he purred. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John squinted. That sounded familiar. Sherlock. Must have heard that name before, because there weren’t many Sherlocks running about. But where had he heard it? Damn half-soaked brain.

Then the man tugged, pulling John forward in a stumble stopped only by the body that caused it. “You, John Watson.” John had to shiver as the breath teased across his ear. “Managed to find yourself a new hat.”

John tensed as he tried to catch up with the conversation. “A new hat?”

“Mmmn,” Sherlock murmured, pulling himself up even as he seemed to twist around John’s side. “And you owe me a joke, mon Capitaine.”

“Oh,” John mumbled stupidly as his mind sluggishly made the connection. He drew back to gaze up at Sherlock. “Well,” his brows twitched as he caught his lower lip between his teeth. “You certainly grew up.”

“I’m still passionately fond of pirates,” Sherlock raised a brow.

John felt a pleasantly warm sensation pooling in his stomach. “Are you, now?”

“Vraiment,” Sherlock smirked.

“Oh,” John breathed.

“Mmn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter - Chapter 25: **Yo Ho, Haul Together** is a continuation of this short :)


	26. Yo Ho, Haul Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh... No one prompted this. I wrote it because I felt bad that I hadn't put that (really and truly awful) terrible joke in the last one. And because I had an entertaining back and forth about the last one. By the by, if anyone was looking for the full joke that you only get the punchline of in Really Bad Eggs... I've put it in the end notes.
> 
> ***Warning*** No more allusion to Mystrade in this
> 
> Dedicated to Alex - here in lies that awful joke that isn't even that funny... but it's about French Pirates; and Sunspark - because frankly, I wrote this from our back and forth.

The first time Mycroft Holmes met the detective sergeant with a penchant for arresting his brother, he was startled enough to accidentally drop his umbrella.

“Ah, sorry,” the DS winced as he stooped to collect the posh looking accessory. He flipped it in the air to turn the handle back toward Mycroft. “Bit mental down here tonight. We’re not always so…” He cleared his throat and waved a hand absently. “Anyway. I’ll go get this release processed.”

“If you would,” Mycroft murmured, taking the umbrella in his hand. Three back-to-back, drug gang bust-ups would likely crowd and overwork even the most efficient offices. Not Mycroft’s, of course; his office would have handled the four dozen processes and had them shipped off to the stocks before daybreak. Pity there hadn’t been a proper penal colony in decades. He opted not to correct the DS’s assumption that the state of Met was what gave him pause.

What actually gave him pause was that he had already met the DS. A lifetime ago and miles away, and only that he had an eidetic memory did he recognized the man. It gave him pause, but also made him smile. What had been dark and shaggy hair had given way to a neater, though not militant, salt and pepper that was far more salt than pepper. The tan had given way to a more weathered appearance; aged by experience, brutal but effective. The quick smile remained, and Mycroft was more than certain the flexibility had not yet waned. He was fit, the stiffness clearly due to the latest run of arrests, some not going as peaceably as those in command had anticipated. Still smoked…

“Any idiot would be well able to see something so absurdly obvious!”

Mycroft sighed and pulled himself upright, resting the tip of his umbrella on the floor. The DS gave Sherlock an affectionate shove towards Mycroft, “And any idiot would be well aware that stabbing yourself with dirty needles will kill you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then noticed Mycroft and snarled, “You called him?!”

The DS frowned. “Course I called him. We’re bloody well busy here, if you hadn’t noticed. I’ve better things to do than wait for you to sleep it off. Now fuck off before I have to charge you with something.”

“God forbid someone do an ounce of work around here,” Sherlock huffed.

“Oi!” the DS snapped, pointing sharply at the door. “Out!”

Mycroft set a hand on his brother’s gangly shoulder, “Sherlock.”

“Oh, do fuck off!” Sherlock stomped out of the Met like a stroppy toddler.

Mycroft took an extremely slow breath in, graced the DS with a faint smile—the one that didn’t look overly psychotic, but certainly forced—and followed Sherlock out into the night. And when he finally returned to the office, he promptly ran an exceptionally detailed background check on the DS. For Sherlock’s protection. Clearly.

~o~

“Oi!”

The pointed cough went unheeded.

“I can sodding well walk on my own!”

Mycroft tilted his head as they came into view, raising a single brow at the state of his guest. His eyes flashed to the large suit at DS Gregory Lestrade’s elbow. The flicker of disapproval at the corners of his mouth spoke volumes without words.

“Sir,” the suit nodded. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he scanned Lestrade. Then he gave the suit an outright look of disappointment that caused the man to shift uncomfortably. “Oh, for the…” He quickly divested the DS of his handcuffs, a truncheon, an impressive pair of brass knuckles, and a switchblade. He gave Mycroft a nod, and the disappointment waned slightly.

“Do you want my backup too?” Lestrade asked wryly, crossing his arms firmly over his chest.

“You keep your service pistol locked in your desk drawer and only carry it when your DI insists. Your backup is locked in a safe in the top of your wardrobe at home, placed high enough that even you need a chair to reach it. Quite right, given the new addition to your family.” Mycroft hardly needed to dismiss his underling beyond the faint tip of a finger. “If I truly wanted to disarm you, I’d relieve you of the half empty pack in your inner breast pocket. You do owe me one.”

“Owe you?” Confusion marred his features momentarily. Then Lestrade set his jaw, clearly in an effort to keep from gaping, but stubborn was etched in the way he carried himself and tolerated a philandering wife so early in his marriage. “I don’t even care how you know that about me. I do have a mad stack of paperwork to get back to though. So if that’s all you’ve got, I’ll be off.”

Mycroft smirked. “Don’t you.” He twisted the umbrella against the floor. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“No,” Lestrade said flatly.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask,” Mycroft injected the tiniest intonation of hurt into his voice.

Lestrade’s face pinched. “I know that if you have to drag me to an empty warehouse and have some thug disarm me first, whatever it is you want, it’s not exactly legal.” His shoulders shrugged up around his ears and he flinched before glaring at Mycroft. “Wait, I know you.”

“Oh?” Mycroft raised a brow.

“You’re that arsehole’s brother. Oooo,” Lestrade planted his fists on his hips. “I swear to God, if this about him hanging out around the Met, I’ll haul you both in and leave you in a cell together. You can snark bits of flesh from each other and maybe then I can get some work done.”

“I would not recommend that, Detective Sergeant,” Mycroft purred.

“Oh you wouldn’t, would you? No. Of course not. No, you wouldn’t.” He huffed and threw up his hands. “And what would you recommend, you stolid…” He winced as he bit back a rude comment.

“Hmm,” Mycroft tilted his head. “You are a reasonable man, Gregory.”

Greg snorted.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched into a hint of a smile. “My brother cannot be easy to have around. I can,” he studied the handle of his umbrella. “Ease the pain.”

“Ease the pain?” he demanded indignantly.

“It cannot be inexpensive to raise a child in central London on your salary,” Mycroft mused.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Sod off.” Greg glared.

“Are you quite sure, Detective Sergeant?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Am I quite certain that I won’t take your damn money to turn a blind eye to your fucking brother’s drug problem? Yeah. Yeah, I’m damn sure.” He crossed his arms again. “I’ll even go a step further. I’ll ban him from crime scenes and the Met if he shows up high. You keep him sober, I’ll tolerate his gentle and soothing presence. Now give me back my fucking handcuffs. Those things aren’t bloody cheap.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched again. “If you’re certain.” He flicked his hand in a dismissal, and the suit reappeared. “It was nice to meet you, Detective Sergeant.”

Lestrade just laughed.

~o~

“Please tell me that these kidnappings are not going to become regular occurrences; I do have a job that doesn’t involve posh cars or wherever the hell this place is.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. It was less than ideal to meet today. It had been busy. Beyond busy. It had been nearly intolerable. And if his counterpart in Laos wouldn’t budge on the necessary treaty… He sighed and shoved all the unpleasant thoughts aside. “Not a regular occurrence, no.”

Lestrade crossed his arms and stood on the far side of the desk, glaring. “Why am I here?”

“That’s a touch metaphysical for this time of the evening,” Mycroft mused.

“Don’t be a git,” he growled.

Mycroft tilted his head toward the chair. “Do sit down, Gregory, would you please?”

Lestrade eyed the chair warily. “There isn’t a dungeon trapdoor under it?”

A flicker of a smile passed over Mycroft’s mouth. “Not as such, no. Far too messy.”

“Messy?”

“The upkeep is desperate.”

Lestrade let out a nervous laugh but settled into the chair. If he moved it a full foot to one side before sitting, Mycroft didn’t comment. “So. Bad day, was it?”

Mycroft raised a brow and glared.

Lestrade huffed, “Please. You’re in your shirt sleeves. Your jacket’s gone. Your tie is just the slightest bit loose. And you’ve dragged me into your office rather than finding a disused building like you normally do. I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you’re not.” Mycroft let out a long breath that came in just shy of a sigh. “The mercenary tendencies of the,” he paused as he quickly tried to frame his colleague in a non-identifiable light. “Shipping industries I’ve been endeavoring to tame have proven difficult.”

“Ha!” Lestrade’s posture relaxed in the chair. “I very much doubt there’s a group out there you couldn’t bring to heel if you wanted.”

“You overestimate me,” Mycroft straightened and tugged down on his waistcoat. “I merely occupy a small role in the Ministry of Transport. Hardly the necessary clout for negotiating with pirates.”

Lestrade winced at the word ‘pirate,’ but hid it quickly. “Small role,” he repeated wryly.

“Yes,” Mycroft drawled. “Speaking of, I owe you a congratulations, Detective Inspector."

“Ah, is that why I’m here?”

“Partially.” Mycroft’s mouth did something odd that felt like a smile. “The congratulations, and my sincere gratitude.”

Lestrade’s brows shot up. “Gratitude?”

Mycroft laced his fingers together and tapped his extended index fingers off of his chin. “My brother has been… Much more amenable of late. I have no doubt that stems from your influence.”

“Amenable?” Lestrade laughed. “He made one of my bobbies cry yesterday.” At Mycroft’s silence, a dawning realization crept over him. “Oh. You mean… Yeah. He’s been sober. And he’s helpful when he slows down enough to explain things to me.”

“Your team has a rather impressive record on case closures at the moment. I think we would both like to see that continue.”

“I certainly hasn’t hurt my prospects,” Lestrade said flatly. “He really is quite brilliant.”

“Isn’t he.”

Lestrade sighed. “So, that it then?”

“Mmn,” Mycroft scanned him quickly. “For the moment. Incidentally, it’s not the cigarettes that she hates, but she’ll blame them when she leaves.”

“Fuck off.”

~o~

Mycroft watched the pair of them stroll away down towards the main street. He still hadn’t decided if this was a good thing or not. There would be immediate benefits, some, few, perhaps. But there would likely be a cascade of problems. Trust was a delicate and interesting thing, odd thing, dangerous thing.

“Want one?”

He raised a brow as he twisted to face the intruding voice. Anthea had vanished, as was her way; recognizing discretion before it was even required. “What would lead you to believe that I would?”

“You keep saying I owe you one.” Lestrade shrugged. “And I assume you’re nearly as worried about that pair as I am.”

“Oh?” Mycroft knew as soon as he’d said it that it wouldn’t be convincing.

“Well, he’s your brother.” Lestrade lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “And I’ve known John for years.” Mycroft resisted the urge to glare at the DI. He knew John Watson? When would… Oh. Oh! Well that was wonderful. Splendid really. Now that he thought about it, he remembered meeting, somewhat, John Watson as well. “They actually met at a party years ago,” Lestrade continued, mumbling around the cigarette rather than actually take it out of his mouth. “Don’t think either of them remember though.”

“Mmn, difficult to retain such small interactions after a time,” Mycroft murmured as his brother disappeared from view.

Lestrade gave him a long look. “I doubt you’ve forgotten a single interaction you’ve had in your life.”

A small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Again, I suspect you overestimate me, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade huffed. “How’d you know about her?”

Mycroft turned to give his full attention to the DI. “I think, Gregory, that you rather ought to ask how you did not.”

Lestrade frowned and crossed his arms. “You’re almost more infuriating than your brother.”

“Almost?” Mycroft mused. “Then I shall endeavor to try harder, Detective Inspector.” He gave a quick nod. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

Lestrade snorted. “They probably won’t have the chance.”

“That would be a terrible shame.”

“Aw, you sound like you care.” It was said in jest, but the point was clear.

“Sentiment is not a luxury I can afford. Marauders and buccaneers and lowly ministers.”

Lestrade’s brow twitched. “And we’re back to pirates, eh?”

Mycroft resisted the urge to grin. “Aren’t we just.”

~o~

“How the hell have you been?” Greg clapped John on the shoulder as he settled in the booth.

John smiled shyly. “Been better, but getting there.”

“Can I say you scared the absolute tar outta me when you appeared in Baker Street?” Greg lifted his pint in a salute. “Scared shitless.”

John grinned and shrugged. “Interesting reunion of sorts. I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

Lestrade huffed. “Come on, John. I know it was just the one summer, but how many times did we run into each other in London while you were finally in Uni?”

“That was ridiculous.” John sipped his pint. “But it’s been more than a decade. People change.”

“You clearly don’t. Are you still going around telling horrible jokes to your lady friends?”

John groaned. “That was just the once.”

“It was not. What was the one that got you slapped?”

“You mean the one that made her go complain to the bosses?” John shook his head. “I think she was more pissed about that joke than my age.”

Greg grinned. “Your age, my tendencies, your awful pirate jokes. Who knows. It was one helluva summer regardless.”

“At least you knew French,” John complained. “I couldn’t even follow the tirade she unleashed.”

“You didn’t want to, trust me,” Greg mused. “Go on, tell us that joke.”

John sighed, but the look he gave Greg from under his lashes was full of mischief. “So… Why do Brits make better pirates than the French?”

“I don’t think you said ‘French’ when you last told it, but go on. Why do Brits make better pirates?”

“Because,” John grinned. “We may be rubbish team players, but we take what’s ours. At least we yell ‘Aye, aye’ instead of ‘Oui, oui.’”

Greg chuckled at the broad smile on John’s face. “That’s the one. It’s really terrible.”

“Horrible,” John agreed.

“It’s good to see you again though.”

John smiled. “Yeah. Last time was that party at Mike’s.”

“I didn’t think you remembered that party.”

“Oh?” John raised his brows. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, you know. There was a lot of beer. And I wasn’t sure you remembered that you’d met Sherlock before.” Greg took a sip of his pint, anticipating a jolt of surprise from John.

“At that party?” John’s mouth pulled back into a lopsided grin. “Greg… Really?”

Greg looked at him in confusion. “Yeah. He was the other one dressed as a pirate. I distinctly remember that. He became a huge pain in my arse about two years later. Pretty sure he deleted the whole night, because he didn’t know me at the Met.”

“Greg,” John shook his head. “I met Sherlock the same year I met you.”

“What?”

“He came to the park. He was like, eleven years old. Little, lanky kid, with mad curls and a paper hat? Was mad about pirates? How do you not remember this? He’s the one that outed me for being underage.” John gave an emphatic look. “You spent that morning flirting with his brother.”

“What?” Greg’s face fell flat.

John smiled. “Oh my God, you don’t remember!” He snickered at the expression on Greg’s face. “Oh my God! Greg, you idiot!”

“Wait…” Greg’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft… Mycroft Holmes was out at…”

“Greg, you were flipping snogging him for a smoke on your break!” John doubled over in a fit of giggles.

“Oh God,” Greg groaned. “Oh God. Do you think he remembers that?”

John tried to control his laughter and failed. “Remembers? That man doesn’t forget a single second of a single day. I’m surprised he hasn’t brought it up!” John returned to his high-pitched giggles.

“He…” Greg paused to think about it, Mycroft’s voice echoing in his head, _Mercenary, Pirates, You owe me one._ “Oh bloody fuck,” he muttered. John nearly fell out of the booth with laughter.

~o~

“Why don’t you go inflict your corpulent presence on a weaker mind.”

Greg tried not to groan. If Mycroft had ‘escorted’ Sherlock to the Met, he’d be in a right state of agitation.

“Sherlock.”

Oh good, John was with him. A slightly calmer, barely saner, moderating presence. Except Mycroft wound John up tighter than Sherlock.

“Gordon!”

Greg frowned. Maybe if he failed to respond, Sherlock would go away. Or get his name right for the first sodding time.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock bellowed as he crossed to Greg’s smoking shelter out the back door.

He groaned and held the cigarette down by his hip. “Yeah, yeah. What is it?”

“I need a case!”

“That’s nice. Thankfully, no one’s been killed today.”

John stifled a laugh into his shoulder. Sherlock snarled. “Then find me someone _Useful!_ ”

“Minding you is not my job!” Greg sighed and bit down on his lower lip. Hard. A quick glance up the alleyway showed the black town car idling by the curb. Waiting. Goddammit. He rubbed his mouth roughly. “If I give you something to do, can I trust you not to maim or destroy for the next two days?”

Sherlock dug his fingers into his hair and made an odd whining sound. John gave him a stern look and smiled at Greg, “I’ll make sure he toes the line.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “See that you do.” He tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and fished around for his mobile. “O’Neill? Yeah, it’s Lestrade. You still have that box of files?” He paused to listen. “Yeah. I’m sending up an envoy. You mind turning it over?” He held up a hand, planting it on Sherlock’s chest with a warning glare. “Not you.” He looked at John, “You. Yeah, O’Neill, he’s coming up now.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of-”

“Shut it,” Greg snapped. “John, go up to four, ask for O’Neill. It’s just one box. But it ought to keep him busy. And at home, yeah?”

“Aye, aye,” John winked as he heading into the building.

“Oi!” Lestrade poked a finger at his retreating form. “None of that!”

John was whistling to mask the sound Lestrade’s shouting. Sherlock picked a spot on the brick wall opposite the door and loitered, glaring at Lestrade. “Didn’t you tell me that drugs would kill me?”

Lestrade glowered. “I believe I referenced dirty needles, not cigarettes.”

“Filthy habit,” Sherlock hissed.

“You smoke.”

“Did.” Sherlock waved a hand. “Nicotine patches; it is the nicotine that people are addicted to. I thought you were on patches as well.”

“Yeah, well,” he took a drag. “You drive me to bad habits.”

Sherlock sneered, “Me? I would think rather it’s your wife that’s doing the driving.”

“Oi!”

John reemerged with a box of files and a grin. “You two old seadogs getting on?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Greg frowned and stubbed out his cigarette. “That’s enough. I need all, ALL,” he pointed at Sherlock, “Of those files back when you’re done. Clear?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. John’s smile grew. “Sir, yes, Sir.”

“Fuck off. Both of you. Now.”

“Aye, aye.”

“Watson, you’re a right bastard.”

Sherlock was hissing something in John’s ear as they left, but John was shaking his head and whistling again… They neared the street… Whistling something that sounded vaguely familiar… Hailed a taxi… Sounded like… Climbed in the cab and likely headed to Baker Street… Why did that…

“Oh, goddammit!” Lestrade snapped and stalked toward the idling car at the curb. He pulled open the back door and slid into the seat, both impressed and relieved that the door was unlocked and Mycroft was alone. “So,” he started flatly.

Mycroft raised a brow. “Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Lestrade crossed his arms.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Greg ran his tongue across his lower lip and dragged his gaze up from the perfectly polished tips of Mycroft’s shoes to the curious tilt of his head. “The king and his men,” Greg began, a wry smile twisting the corner of his lips. “Stole the queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones.”

Mycroft blinked slowly, almost a flutter of his eyelids as his head tilted further, “What?”

“The seas will be ours,” Greg’s smile grew as he watched the confusion wash across Mycroft’s face. He could see it now, where there used to be a dusting of freckles, and where the hair used to be thicker, redder, and less maintained. And oh, he’d cuffed his sleeves that day. How had he missed that? “And by the powers where we will, we’ll roam.” He whistled the refrain. That damn song that John had been whistling.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “So.”

“So.” Greg pursed his lips as he was about to launch into the next verse, but stopped. “You’re an arse.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft agreed.

“You could have told me.”

“Told you?” Mycroft tilted his head again.

Greg smiled bitterly. He knew. Mycroft knew exactly what he was talking about. “I suppose you think you did.” He shrugged and leaned forward. “My French has gotten just the tiniest bit rusty, but.” This was it. Now or never. Mycroft would say no. He’d probably throw him out of the car. But… “Je t’en dois…”

Oh. He’d been planning to finish that sentence. Planning to, but long fingers slid around the back of his neck, dragging him across the small space and into a fierce kiss. Unexpected. And bloody gorgeous. He fisted his hands in the expensive fabric of Mycroft’s waistcoat and pulled himself flush onto the other man’s lap. “Hoist the colors, yo ho,” he breathed.

Mycroft groaned and nipped at Greg’s lower lip. “Pirate,” he hissed.

Greg chuckled darkly. “What is it with Holmeses and pirates?”

Mycroft ran an appreciative hand down Greg’s spine, grabbing a palm full of flesh when he reached the base. “Are you still rather flexible?”

Greg grinned. “You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pirate walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while. What happened, you look terrible!"
> 
> "What do you mean?" the pirate replies, "I'm fine."
> 
> The bartender says, "But what about that wooden leg? You didn't have that before."
> 
> "Well," says the pirate, "We were in a battle at sea and a cannon ball hit my leg but the surgeon fixed me up, and I'm fine, really."
> 
> "Yeah," says the bartender, "But what about that hook? Last time I saw you, you had both hands."
> 
> "Well," says the pirate, "We were in another battle and we boarded the enemy ship. I was in a sword fight and my hand was cut off but the surgeon fixed me up with this hook, and I feel great, really."
> 
> "Oh," says the bartender, "What about that eye patch? Last time you were in here you had both eyes."
> 
> "Well," says the pirate, "One day when we were at sea, some birds were flying over the ship. I looked up, and one of them shat in my eye."
> 
> "So?" replied the bartender, "what happened? You couldn't have lost an eye just from some bird shit!"
> 
> "Well," says the pirate, "I really wasn't used to the hook yet."


	27. Let Me Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I can guess where this is headed correctly on my first try, will you at least loosen these ropes? My wrists are starting to blister.” AU [posted by daily AU]
> 
> Turns out I still can't tell fleur 'No'  
> (and this is just a drabble that's too short for it's own work)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I thought I was done with Tumblr Shorts...

John frowned at the man standing in front of him. He frowned at the closed door, at the concrete floor, at the stupid blinding fluorescent light, at the smell (god did it smell, and it was probably at least 50% the man), at the bloody freezing support beam, and at the hemp rope (who even uses hemp ropes?!). But mostly, he frowned at the man. Because at the end of the day, that man had, rather inexpertly, struck him in head with what might have been a two-by-four, thrown a bag over his head, shoved him in the boot of a car, and tied him to a sodding beam with HEMP! He could feel the heat along his wrists where the bristled edges were slowly burning into his skin. Fucking amateurs.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

John glared harder. “Because I’ve a knot on my head the size of a golf ball, with a splitting headache to go with it, ta very much for that.”

“Well how the hell else was I supposed to get you here?”

“Did you consider saying ‘please’?” John huffed, trying to ease the tension in his arms. It would take weeks for bad rope burn to heal. And based on where his hands were stinging, it wouldn’t even be something he could hide beneath the cuffs of his shirt. That meant awkward questions. And pitying looks. And god, what was that SMELL?

“Would you have come?”

John blinked. “No.”

“Then why would I say please?”

“Because you weren’t raised in a barn? This is dull.” Oh god, he was turning into Sherlock. “And for christ’s sake, what is that bloody awful smell?”

The man glanced around, surreptitiously (or what he thought was surreptitiously) sniffed his own jacket, then shrugged. "This place was a cannery a while ago?"

John sighed. "Right. Ok. Right. Let me guess. You're new at this, yeah?"

The man frowned. "Mebbe."

"Ok. Look," John started, the corner of his mouth twitching. "If I can guess where this is headed correctly on my first try, will you at least loosen these ropes? My wrists are starting to blister."

"I..." The man narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a trick."

"I don't do tricks," John grumbled. "But let me guess. You want me to tell you where Sherlock is, or you want me to call Sherlock, or somehow get in touch with Sherlock, send some smoke signals or something equally ludicrous, so that Sherlock will be lured here into..." John's face pinched as if the last bit was painful to say. "A trap? Do you even know how a trap works?"

"I know how a trap works!"

"Do you? Because I'm pretty sure the fundamental rule of traps is that they're supposed to be a surprise." John shifted uncomfortably; the floor was making his bum fall asleep. It was patently ridiculous. "Not to mention that a trap has to be designed to, I dunno, actually trap?"

"It's a good trap!"

"Really?" The disbelief plastered itself across John's face. "I'm sure you think it's a good trap... Look. How about you loosen the ropes a titch."

"I'm not falling for that."

"Falling for what? Not chafing the hell out of my wrists? At least if you'd used duct tape, I'd only be missing some hair, not the entirety of my dermis." John rested his head back against the beam and shifted again to plant his feet against the ground. "What if I promise not to try to escape?"

"What do you mean?"

John shook his head up at the ceiling, asking for patience. "What if I swear on my mother's grave that I won't try to escape if you just loosen the ropes a tiny bit? I'm just trying not to bleed anymore than necessary here."

"How do I know your mother is dead?"

John groaned. "Because I'm a horrible sonuvabitch that would have certainly put his mother in an early grave with my behaviour! Just come on. This fucking stings."

"Nah..." The man shook his head. "I don't think so. That actually sounds like a trap."

"You're a moron," John said flatly.

"Hey! I got you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, congratulations, you can crack an ordinary person over the head with a plank of wood. Good job. You should get a medal for that."

"Hey!"

"Getting the jump on Sherlock, now that's a feat. I can't change the background on my phone without him knowing before it's done. But no, you quite rightly took me by surprise. Well done you."

"If you don't shut up-"

"Oh please," John hissed. "Are you going to shut me up? Think this through for a second. Don't you need me to call Sherlock?"

"I could send him a picture."

"From your own phone?" he shook his head in disbelief. "This just keeps getting better. Why don't you just call the police too? Go on, it'll save us all some trouble."

"I think you're more trouble than you're worth."

"Just getting that now, are you?" John rolled his eyes. "Let me make this clear. This never works. It doesn't. Never. You're not the first person to think this was a good plan. It's not. It's a terrible plan. So just stop."

"That's.. I've had..."

"Oi! Genius!" John barked

"No, no, you don't get to be sarcastic."

"I wasn't bloody well talking to you, was I?" John snapped. He didn't even have the sympathy to flinch at the dull thud made when Sherlock brought the butt of the gun down against the man's skull. He dropped like a sack of potatoes and John flashed Sherlock a bright smile. "Took you long enough."

"I thought an hour was quite respectable," Sherlock answered with a grin of his own.

"They didn't even take my phone. You've done better."

Sherlock chuckled as he stooped to cut the ties from John's wrists. "Hemp?"

"I know, right?" John peeled the rope away and hissed as his shirt brushed against the burns. "Up?" He stuck out a hand and Sherlock caught it and pulled him to his feet.

"Really, John. I can't be swooping in at all hours, just because you've let yourself get knocked over the head."

"You said they'd have a gun," John complained. "The two-by-four wasn't part of the plan."

"They did have a gun," Sherlock raised a brow and offered the gun to John.

"Twat," John muttered, tucking the firearm into the back of his jeans. "Now I have a headache."

"Dinner?" Sherlock offered.

"Take away?" John countered. "I think I need a shower. It smells bloody awful down here."

"I've heard it's impolite to say, but now that you mention it..."

"Git," John knocked his shoulder off of Sherlock's. "Indian?"

"Thai."

"Fine. You're paying."

Sherlock sighed. "Must I do everything?"


End file.
